


Find the Grey Warden

by eternalshiva



Series: Dragon Age Inquisition: Alistair x Inquisitor (Find The Grey Warden Universe) [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Frottage, I will update the tags as the fic goes on, Mild Gore, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, description of some corpses but nothing explicit, dragon gore, fic with art
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:06:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3622575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalshiva/pseuds/eternalshiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Grey Wardens were a mysterious lot, Octavia thought, and this one hiding in a cave was no exception.  (The story of Inquisitor Octavia Trevelyan and how she fell in love with a Warden named Alistair, who was still hiding in the shadows of the Blight and in the memory of his dead lover.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crestwood - Part 1 - Warden in a Cave

**Author's Note:**

> This was an innocent prompt on Tumblr that turned into my obsession. 
> 
> A little history: Elissa Cousland - dead, no ritual. Fell in love with a bastard prince who refused the throne - their love didn't get far, it was over far too soon but Alistair still thinks on the little time they had and takes care of her mabari. 
> 
> He's no prude, of course - he's had other relations since then, nothing serious, nothing lasting. None like the Warden and he didn't see Octavia coming, at all. Angst, fluff, sex - emotions everywhere. It's going to be a ride.
> 
> Thank you brandnewandancient for the beta.

art by siriusdraws (commissioned)

 

Octavia heard the sound first, the sharpness of a sword being drawn out and cutting the air quickly. The _shwing_ of metal against a scabbard was something she was very familiar with, but, she hadn’t expected the open hostility, to be dreadfully honest. Hawke had said her contact was friendly but now… now she _questioned_ that honesty – Champion of Kirkwall or not.  
  
The tip of the sword dug just under her chin, the hard bite of silverite against her flesh made her pause – she didn’t move, in fear that the edge of the blade that pressed against her jaw and ear would slice the skin even further.  
  
“Identify yourself, if you would be so kind.” The thick _sarcastic_ Ferelden accent surprised her; Hawke had mentioned that the Warden they were meeting in the cave was with the _Orlesian_ branch. Well, she _assumed_ it was the Warden; she couldn’t see him while he stood at her back and she didn’t want to risk turning her head more than she had too. The blade pressed against her once more, the embedded edge making her wince.

“I _asked_ you a question.” All pleasantries had gone from his voice, it was a warning and she took it very seriously. Octavia cleared her throat, raising her gloved hands up to show she had no intentions of attacking, which took some of the pressure off the blade he held there.

“Only if you introduce yourself first.” She quipped back, earning a soft snort of disbelief. She turned her head slightly to look at him. The man was about a head taller than she was, wearing the armour of a Grey Warden soldier but it was slightly modified so he could move a bit more freely in it. She could have sworn it was rogue armour but his shield suggested otherwise. His gaze was steady, his amber eyes narrowing slightly when she turned to face him but his sword did not move from her as he waited for her to continue speaking.

“Apologies for intruding,” she added, a bit more subdued. She had, after all, entered his… _dwelling_ , uninvited. Moments ticked by while they stared at each other, almost measuring up what type of threat one could be to the other.

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” he half-assed shrugged and gave her a smile that didn't strive for comfort. The tone wasn’t missed and she returned the gesture with her own rigid grin, hoping it would diffuse the situation but it only made him frown. He took a step back, sword still pointed at her.

“My name is-“

“Relax, Alistair, she’s with me.” Hawke quickly walked into the room, effectively cutting her off and waving her hands to tell him to lower his weapon before reaching back and taking her staff from its hoister. “This is the Inquisitor, Octavia Trevelyan. Try not to kill the one person that could potentially help us.” The mage used her staff to push the blade from the Inquisitor, eyeing her quickly to make sure she was alright.

“The Inquisitor?” His eyes widen for a moment, he dropped the blade from its position. “Ah,” Alistair grinned sheepishly at her, his whole attitude changing suddenly. “Forgive me, I’ve had trying times as of late – being on the run and such. One can never be too careful and Marian,” he glanced towards Hawke, giving her a stern look, “Maybe next time you should come in _with_ the stranger so I don’t get the urge to cut their heads off.”

“What’s the fun in that?” Hawke quipped back while Alistair prepared to slide his sword back in its scabbard; he noticed the small smudge of blood on his weapon that wasn’t there before. He looked up and eyed the Inquisitor, took two steps forward and invaded her personal space. He motioned if he could look at her chin by pointing at his own while removing his gloves. She nodded, absently, a bit taken by his behaviour.

“Introductions are in order, I suppose,” he spoke softly, one hand wrapped around the back of her head while the other tipped Octavia’s chin up to check the wound. He gave her a bit of a crooked grin that made her narrow her eyes. “My name is Alistair, it’s an honour to meet you, although I wished it were somewhere a bit _nicer_.”

“Are you _the_ Alistair?” Octavia couldn’t help herself, she was a history scholar of sorts and the fifth blight had always captured her interest – history had laid itself at her feet and here was a living participant. “The one who fought besides the Hero of Ferelden and defeated the Archdemon, ten years ago?”

He paused in his careful attention of her wound; his strange amber eyes meeting her green ones and while his gaze was steady, she felt his fingers squeeze a little on her jaw. She sensed she had touched a subject that was possibly sensitive to the Warden, considering his whole demeanour had changed, again. He looked away, focusing on her cut and nodded in satisfaction as he wiped away the drying blood there. The sting distracted her from asking any more questions.

“Yes, _that_ Alistair.” He murmured, offering a smile as he let go of her and stepped back, he put his leather gloves back on and sighed. “I should really change my name,” he shook his head slightly, and Octavia thought for a moment he seemed _disappointed_.

“I _wish_ I could answer all the fascinating questions that I am _sure_ you are eager to ask, Inquisitor.” He steeled his voice against whatever emotion he had before and cleared his throat. “Here’s the short and dirty version: War, love, betrayal – you’ve heard that bit, yes?”

Octavia hummed in agreement. “Yes, I’ve heard the tales, Darkspawn being the big attraction, of course.” She quipped. Alistair raised a brow.

“Well, besides that, there were apostates in the Wilds, blood magic gone wrong, chasing the bones of a mad woman – as Morrigan eloquently stated.” He grinned, winking at her, “but I heard the temple blew up, so much for that _infuriating_ bridge puzzle.” Octavia felt her cheek warm, the dig wasn’t met for her but it still felt personal, considering she had survived the explosion in question.

“There was also a murder of crows chasing us through Thedas.” Alistair sighed, scratching his chin, trying to recall more. “There was a pirate who would only trade information if you… well that’s another story over a drink and, let’s not forget the _bards_ , drunk dwarves and a talking statues. Yes?” He eyed her, could clearly see her confusion but he kept going. “Lots of laughter and fun, except for the part where the Hero _dies_ slaying the monster at the end of the fairy tale and the _prince_ is left to pick up the pieces.”

Alistair let out a sharp bark of laughter as though there was a joke in there she missed. She gaped, a bit flustered at the resentment in his voice, “I didn’t mean to offend…” she started, and Alistair shrugged and turned towards the back of the cave where he had his things piled haphazardly next to a table overflowing with spilled wax. Candles were just bright enough for those sitting there to see the papers laying there without much trouble. How long had he been in this cave, exactly?

“It’s fine, really. I’m sure it all makes for excellent stories around the fire pits at night – but no one cares about _that_ anymore.” He waved her obvious protest away. “I’m just a whisper in the tale and now I’m a simple Grey Warden who answers to Warden Commander Clarel,” He shook his head, looking at her over his shoulder, “Just like everyone else.”

“You’re far from a simple Warden,” Hawke cut in, plopping herself down on the makeshift bed that was tucked out of sight and she leaned over smiling at something Octavia couldn’t quite see.

“Alright, help me put things together here,” Octavia bit down the irritation she felt and focused her attention on the task at hand, “The Wardens disappear, Corypheus was supposed to have been defeated by Hawke-“

“He was dead.” The mage cut in, frowning at the tone Octavia was using, “There was no if or and about it, no pulse, no magic, no connection to the Fade. He. Was. Dead.”

Octavia nodded in acknowledgement and Hawke lay down, letting her arm cover her eyes. “Regardless,” the Inquisitor started, “He’s around now and I have the distinct feeling he’s got something to do with the Wardens disappearing.”

“You’re not too far off the mark, actually – if I may?” Alistair beckoned her to his desk, the candles burned low around his work and she tried not to watch the shadows play on his facial features. He was _handsome_ , and she was a bit miffed about it.

“Hawke described how the magister died and it got me thinking about how the Archdemons are defeated,” he pulls a book out from the stacks he has piled up, flipping through some quickly and settling on a page that was filled with his handwriting and points. “Although the Wardens that were there thought the matter closed when Hawke slayed Corypheus, I noticed she had said that one of them was advanced in the Calling –“ Octavia gave him a look, which interrupted him.

“The Calling?”

“Yes, this is a time when a Warden knows the… corruption inside of them is killing them; they know they have very little time left.” He tried to be clear but she could tell he was leaving out a lot of details. “You see, Archdemons do not die from simple injury-“

“They don’t? I was under the impression you just needed a special Warden sword.” She grinned, thinking about what Blackwall had said. Alistair narrowed his eyes and frowned.

“That’s absurd, if that were the case, the Hero would still be alive and we’d be having a very different conversation.” He let out a disgusted snort, Octavia blinked, a bit embarrassed.

“As I was saying,” Alistair continued, glancing in her direction to see if she was going to interrupt again, he was pleased when she shrugged. “They do not die from simple injury and I was concerned that maybe the magister had the same power. So, I started to investigate.” He rubbed the back of his neck, and sighed. “There were hints, whispers but nothing concrete and just as I was starting to get _somewhere_ , every single Warden in Orlais started to hear the calling.”

“Every single one?” Hawke interrupted him this time, his teeth snapped together in retaliation. It was getting a little tiresome. “Does that include you?” Octavia noted that the Champion looked angry with him, Alistair merely shifted his weight from foot to foot and pressed his lips together in thought.

“Yes, unfortunately, I hear the Calling.”

“Don’t you think this is something you should have shared?” Hawke stood up, pacing the ground mumbling to herself. Alistair shrugged, looked at Octavia before redirecting his gaze back to his desk.

“It was a secret, an important and dangerous one – I try to keep _some_ of my oaths to the Wardens.” He quipped, shaking his head. Octavia cleared her throat slightly, her thoughts swirling around the information.

“Is Corypheus using the Calling somehow? I mean, could he use it to control them, maybe?”

The Warden hummed at the Inquisitor, thinking. “Not exactly, you can’t use the Calling to control people but, when a Warden hears it, it means that they will die.” Alistair glanced over his shoulder, their gaze meeting in understanding.

“So, they’re scared of dying out?” Octavia murmured to which Alistair nodded, grimly.

“He has them in the palm of his hands; he’s made them desperate enough to ignore all logic.” Hawke snorted, unimpressed.

“It has them entirely terrified. I think Corypheus caused it somehow and is using it to his advantage.” Alistair’s voice softened, and if it wasn’t for the cave walls, Octavia would have missed the last words entirely. “If all the Wardens die, then, who will stop the next blight?” His question hung in the air, heavy with implication she couldn’t even begin to phantom.

“According to some, you just need to cut a path through to the Archdemon and stab it – in fact, some would even say they are a relic and should remain as such.” Octavia sighed, her voice laced with so much sarcasm it made Alistair chuckle softly; he’d heard that more times than he’d care to admit.

“Cut through legions of Darkspawn and stab the Archdemon with the Special Warden Sword?” He asked, unable to resist her previous comment, Octavia grinned, putting her hands on her hips in feigned indignation.

“Yes,” she sighed dramatically, “Though I am starting to doubt my sources.”

“As you should, Inquisitor.” Alistair grinned and he returned his attention to Hawke, who seemed quite annoyed at their jest. “Who is your source, if you wouldn’t mind my asking?”

“A Grey Warden, actually.” Octavia seemed distracted, she was watching his hips move from side to side when he turned towards her – he didn’t notice but she did look up in time to see his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“A Warden? And whom may that be?” he was genuinely curious and Octavia was more than willing to answer him, but Hawke had different ideas.

“This is all _fascinating_ , I’m sure.” Hawke cut through, “We have more pressing matters, like, a magister Darkspawn taking over the Wardens, perhaps?”

Alistair’s smile faded slowly, he nodded and turned back to his desk, and Octavia hummed in agreement, resting her hands at the small of her back. Hawke was right, this wasn’t the time for jesting, and they had a bit of an emergency on hand.

“Is the Calling they’re hearing real, or is Corypheus mimicking it, somehow? How is that even possible?” Octavia crossed her arms, biting her lower lip in concern. Alistair’s gaze drifted to her mouth for a second before answering her.

“I have no idea – it seems real enough to me. Corypheus is tied to the blight, it’s as much as part of him as it is part of the Darkspawn. Wardens,” he sighed, debating quickly if he should speak on another Warden secret, “Wardens are also tied to the blight and Corypheus seems to be able to control only those that are very close to him. That’s what most likely is happening here now, _somehow_.” He mimicked Octavia’s pose, resisting the urge to pace around further.

“How are you being affected by this?” The Inquisitor asked, her tone was certainly worried and with good cause, Alistair wagered. He didn’t answer right away; he nibbled at the inside of his cheek and glanced at Hawke, who was still fuming at him for keeping it a well-kept secret.

“When I’m talking, or fighting – I can _almost_ ignore it but when it’s quiet…” he rubbed at his temple, frowning, “it’s in the back of my mind, digging, relentless. It pulls at you, a tune so bright you can’t get it out of your head. It’s _damned annoying_ , frankly.” He paused, rubbing his temple again, more irate than anything else.

“With the Wardens not thinking clearly, this isn’t going to go over well,” Octavia blew a breath between her lips, trying to think how this will affect the Wardens in the long run. Alistair didn’t like the sound of where the conversation was going.

“Go over well?” He gritted his teeth. “I was _there_ when the Fifth Blight swept Ferelden and if it wasn’t for the Wardens, there would be no more Thedas.” He paced, back and forth, his gaze locked onto the Inquisitor. “If the Wardens are acting irrational it’s because they have reason to do so.”

His voice wasn’t loud but it had so much steel in it, Octavia could feel it cut though her attention and draw her focus squarely to him. He commanded well and she wondered if there was more to him than met the eye. “The Calling is sweeping the _entirety_ of the Order, and if there are no Wardens, there is _nothing_ to stop the sixth blight when it comes, and it _will_ come.”

Octavia frowned, something wasn’t making sense to her. “The Warden in my group, he’s never mentioned this, he seems unaffected,” she pointed out, offering him a little bit of hope, “Maybe it’s not _all_ of the Wardens, only those in Orlais?” Alistair only frowned at her, moving in closer, invading her personal space in order to grasp her attention. She blinked.

“The majority of the Wardens are in Orlais, Ferelden’s Order is minimal, barely existing.” He snorted slightly, he backed away and pointed at his chest. “I was tasked with replenishing the ranks before this investigation became a priority due to its urgent nature and I _can guarantee you_ that joining the Wardens is more than just signing up on the dotted line.”

His lips burned with the truth but he wouldn’t dare break his oath on this. Octavia sighed again, rubbing her forehead in exasperation. They weren’t getting anywhere.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- I mean, I crossed the line here.” Alistair mumbled, suddenly embarrassed by his outburst, it was a bit out of his character to be so quickly irritated but his journey had been long up to this point and he could almost taste the end of it, with the Inquisitor’s help. He didn’t want to have the Warden issue glossed over with misunderstanding but there was only so much he could reveal. “You’re trying to help and I’m being very defensive.” He offered as a peace offering, Octavia eyed him and took his sincerity as it was.

“Well, you have reason to and I’m not sure how _I_ would react if the same was happening to the Inquisition,” she sympathised and he gave her a soft smile to which she mimicked, unknowingly.

“You’re really going to like this part, then.” He grinned and Octavia had the feeling she wasn’t going to like it at all.

“I doubt it,” she eyed Hawke who only shrugged – she had no idea to what he was referring to.

“In the madness, Warden Commander Clarel has resorted to… _drastic_ options,” he shifted his weight, crossing his arms as he continued to keep his gaze fixated on the Inquisitor’s mouth. She licked her lower lip with a darted tongue and he cleared his throat, feeling unusually warm suddenly.

“Don’t keep us in suspense, Ser Alistair.” Hawke quipped, teasing him. He seemed nervous, Octavia pursed her lips in thought.

“Clarel, in desperation to wipe any future blights, proposed a plan to use blood magic rituals to… raise a force that could help them seek out Archdemons.” He braced himself, he knew how Hawke felt about blood magic, having seen Kirkwall’s disaster but he had no knowledge on how the Inquisitor felt about it.

“Blood magic?”

Octavia and Hawke both burst with questions, overlapping the other. Alistair cringed when Hawke’s staff began to light with a spell and Octavia’s eyes narrowed in anger. Well, his guess would be… not approving of it.

“Yes, blood magic. I don’t know what type and I can assure you I did not agree. Even if I am a Grey Warden and they will go to any lengths to accomplish their mission, I have my own limits of what’s acceptable – I protested, a little too loudly, actually.” He straightened under their scrutiny, his attention drawn to the Inquisitor’s eyes. They were a fascinating shade of green. “Clarel sent for guards and… well,” he smiled sheepishly at the women who had calmed a bit, “Here I am.”

There was silence in the cave that made him uncomfortable, he could see the women thinking, Octavia was nibbling on her lower lip before pressing her thumb nail against the teeth and clicked it against the harder surface. Alistair swallowed; he was paying far too much attention to her habits.

“Well, getting angry at you for the blood magic bit is pointless.” The inquisitor sighed, “Solas won’t be pleased, that’s for sure – he already has a problem with the Wardens.”

“Solas?” He asked, the name seemed a bit familiar to him.

“Apostate hedge elf – he’s kind of angry about things that are related to Darkspawn, anyone that messes with the Fade and Wardens really get under his skin, evidently.” Octavia grinned at him.

“He sounds like a pleasure,” returning the grin, he turned to the back of the cave and whistled softly, making a clicking sound with his throat that confused the inquisitor. Hawke nearly squealed when this large Mabari came crawling out from under the bed.

“This is Griffons,” Alistair eyed the dog, who muffed softly at him, wagging its tail. “He was Elissa’s mabari, who decided I was a good enough stand in after she was buried.” He patted the dog on its head, smiling fondly. “We’re lucky he didn’t pass after she died, they rarely live after their partners pass as it is part of the imprinting process.”

“He’s beautiful, and very quiet.” Octavia was thrilled, she loved the Ferelden breed. She watched the Warden bend down to pick up his pack and a few maps, eyes lingering on his backside while he tucked the papers away. She tried to call the large dog over but he only stared at her, head turned sideways.

"He has to be, we’re hiding – and he’s a very smart dog, aren’t you?” He winked at the dog, who pointedly ignored him but wagged his tail – he was entirely focused on the Inquisitor.

“Shall we be on our way then?” He threw the pack over his shoulder, blew out some of the candles before turning to leave. “There are rumours that the Wardens are gathering in the Western Approach. Some old Tevinter ritual towers seem to have their attention and I would like some help in investigating.”

“The Inquisition camp isn’t too far away from here,” Octavia follows him down the path of the cave, closing the door as Hawke passes her with the mabari in tow. “We’ve recently liberated a fortress from some thieves and it’s fully stocked, so we should rest there.” The idea of a warm bed that wasn’t surrounded by dripping stalactite really appealed to Alistair, so he readily agreed.

“I have to close a rift under the lake before we go anywhere.” She added, offhand – he wasn’t sure what that meant, he thought about asking but as he emerged from the cave, Alistair blinked harshly, the sun blinding him for a few moment.

“Maker’s breath,” he swore, rubbing his eyes – Octavia’s laughter tingled his ears.

“Not used to the sun?” She stretched, catching his attention from the corner of his eye. He hadn’t noticed just how _pretty_ the inquisitor was in the darkness of his temporary home. Her black hair was tied up in a bun, he could see waves of curls fighting the bind – there were a few streaks of grey that added a certain charm, he had to admit. Her skin was dark, a bit worn with age and a dust of freckles across the bridge of her nose gave his heart a squeeze – she looked similar to Elissa, the hair colour was all wrong but the way she carried herself was eerily familiar. He noticed the scar across her nose and wondered where she’d gotten it.

She was only a bit shorter than him, not by much, but enough to fit her head under his chin if her were to… he frowned. He wasn’t sure where that had come from. He watched her hands move to her back as she unclipped her daggers for quick access and held his breath for just a second.

A rogue, just like the Hero, he thought passively – something squeezed inside his chest but he ignored it, determined not to let himself think on her more than he had too.

He quickly checked her belts _\- for potions,_ not because he wanted to look at her behind, it was a merely a coincidence that his gaze _lingered_ there. He narrowed his eyes, he could almost hear Wynne chuckling at him. He saw that the Inquisitor had a few flasks burning with bright colours. He wasn’t sure what her specialisation was. He looked away, stepping forward and out into the grass, Crestwood has always been damp and dreary – especially after the village was submerged during the blight so for the sun to be out, it was a rare treat.

Although he wasn’t looking at the Inquisitor anymore, he still thought about her eyes. They were one of the brightest greens he’d had ever seen – it seemed almost unnatural. He surveyed their surroundings, thinking of Elissa’s grey eyes when he noticed a small party sitting by the rocks a few hundred yards away.

“Yours?” He pointed out; she followed his gaze and nodded. The party stood up and began to move towards them. Octavia tried not to stare; the cave hadn’t done him justice.

She could see why the Hero had fallen in love with him. He was tall, trim and his armour hugged all the right curves with its modifications. His step had a bit of a swing that drew her attention to his rear and distracted her relentlessly as he walked a little ahead of her.

His hand gripped the hilt of his sword, resting there, just like Cullen and his shield almost took her breath away. It wasn’t massive, like most warriors but it was well used with the Warden emblem standing proud under dents and scratches. It was old, and she could tell he cherished it dearly.

Her eyes kept moving up, she noticed that he had a strong jaw dusted with a goatee that was strawberry blonde like his hair, and it a splash of grey mixed in. He seemed about her age – if not a little older. His nose was downright _illegal_. The strange honey brown colour of his eyes was even brighter in the sun; he had small crow’s nests around his eyes when he smiled at her, catching her staring.

He had _dimples_.

She flushed and walked ahead of him when he paused in his step, trying to keep her dignity and met with her group while he and Hawke thankfully lagged behind.

“You were pretty hard on her, Alistair.” Hawke feigned interest in her gloved hand, looking at the metal claws she was quite fond of. The Champion armour was her pride and joy and about the only thing she kept from Kirkwall.

“She’s young,” he started, Hawke snorted.

“She’s the same age as you,” she shook her head. He had nearly tripped at the information. “You’re just an old soul, Alistair. You’ve lost too much, as have I.” She reached out, squeezed his shoulder as best she could with his gear on. He smirked, shaking his head.

“Let’s go meet her crew,” he suggested, as they approached closer the team, Hawke smiled at him, humming.

“Feels like the old days when we had our own adventures, right? I’m sure you snarked your way across Thedas, while I spent my time patching up the corrupted Free Marches.”

“Patching up?” Alistair laughed, “Is that what you called the Qunari revolt and the chantry blowing up?” He teased, Hawke shrugged.

“You could have helped; you practically tripped over my corpse in Kirkwall during the revolt – but _Warden duties_.” She mimicked his voice – not his proudest moment, he had to admit.

“I couldn’t ignore my orders and Wardens-“

“Never involve themselves with conflicts outside of the Order.” She huffed, still irked. “I’m well versed in that particular bit, considering my little brother serves your Order.”

There was an awkward pause, Hawke looked down to the ground and it dawned on Alistair that his revealing that all Wardens could hear the calling meant that Carver was also under its influence; that he had probably gone missing as well.

“Marian, I’m-“

“Don’t.” She cut him off, unwilling to hear his apology. It wasn’t his fault that everything had gone to the shitter. “Let’s just find out what’s going on before it gets worst. Plus, this little trip down adventure memory lane should be fun, don’t you think?”

“I don’t have much to celebrate in term of memories _or_ adventures,” he murmured glumly. Hawke rolled her eyes.

“Always with the bad memories, Alistair – lighten up, will you?” He let out an indignant snort as Octavia waved them into the group for introduction. He had to resist the urge to laugh; the parallel to his own little group that defeated the blight was almost too much to bear.

The Inquisitor was a rogue, just as his first lover was; he eyed the rest of the group and let go of a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. A Qunari, a mage and what looked like a Grey Warden. Alistair wondered, for just a split moment, if the Maker was out to torture him.


	2. Crestwood - Part 2 - Warden in a Fortress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A half naked Warden, a plot to kill a dragon and some drinks - nothing can go wrong, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two, things are going and going and...

“This is Caer Bronach Fortress,” Octavia planted her feet on the road, arms open wide to show off her first take over. She was grinning so wide, Alistair was sure he could see the back of her teeth. He looked away from her and focused on the fortress, a bit mystified. The rest of the group, including Hawke, moved on ahead and entered the keep, dispersing.

“It looks… like it has had better days,” he quipped, adjusting his pack on his shoulder. He could feel the sweat tricking down the center of his back and soaking through his tunic. The leather and metal armour were not helping his case as he wiped at a bead of sweat on his temple. Even the mabari looked uncomfortable as it panted heavily, whining.

Maker it was _hot_.

It had been raining for weeks so the ground was practically vomiting water; the sun was baking it dry once more so the humidity was barely liveable. Then again, Alistair thought, it was better than being cold in a cave with dripping stalactites.

“Well,” the Inquisitor huffed, “The fortress spent ten years under the rule of bandits and,” she stepped up towards the entrance, a soldier saluted her before letting them pass, “The Darkspawn had run it over before that, opening the dam to flood the village-“

“What?” Alistair almost laughed, cutting her off. “That’s not possible, Darkspawn are a lot of things but they’re not devious enough to plan _that_.” Griffons barked, as though he was in agreement with him.

She paused and turned her attention to him, whilst climbing the stairs to the market area – Alistair raised a brow. “What?” He asked, genuinely confused. He heard the horses neigh at him and it drew his attention away for a moment. There were several stables nearby and one of them had a giant Halla, no, not a Halla - he wasn't sure what it was. Regardless, he’d never seen such large crown of horns before.

“That’s what I thought,” her thoughtful voice brought his attention back to her. “When I first saw the mechanics of the dam, they were in perfect condition.” Her brow was knitted together in thought.

“I thought that maybe the villagers had managed to repair them, or maybe the bandits, but Iron Bull pointed out that everything was too dusty and the levers looked like they hadn’t been touched in years.” She sighed, frustration evident. “In fact, we had to do a few special steps to get the door to open. Why can’t people just be honest with me, I’ll find out the truth eventually.” She stalked up the stairs, irritated.

Alistair chuckled, having heard that from _her_ before. “Elissa used to say the same thing; it was particular trying while dealing with the dwarves in Orzammar.” Especially Bhelen, at least he was honest in his brutality, Alistair added quietly.

She hummed, leading him to the rooms of the fortress. She opened one of the doors and pointed at the empty room. “Here, you two can rest up and make yourself comfortable, we’ll meet up after.”

Alistair slipped past her and into the much cooler room, almost sighing in relief while Griffons sniffed around, tail wagging and woofing his approval. “Where are the bathing rooms?” He asked her, dumping his pack and shield on the bed. He reached up over his shoulder, trying to undo the clasp but he couldn’t reach, a cramp making itself known in his back. He scrunched up his face with the sharp pain.

“Mak-“

He felt her fingers on his back, tugging at the leather straps – her touch was light but he was far too aware of it. “Let me help you,” she murmured in concentration.

“Th-thanks,” Alistair’s mouth couldn’t work, he pressed his lips together, trying to ignore the memory of Elissa slipping her hands down his back and to the front to undo _something_ else… he cleared his throat when he felt the armour loosen enough for him to grasp it and pull it over his head, the knot of pain was still between his shoulder blades and he made another face pinched with the pain.

“Can…” she started to ask, he turned and looked at her, smirking.

“Is this an elaborate scheme to see me without a top on, Inquisitor?” his voice was low, sending a shiver down her spine that she ignored. He adjusted his undershirt while keeping his eyes focused on her mouth. He absently thought how his shirt was sticky with sweat and smelled terrible.

He looked down at himself, sniffed close to his armpit and made a sound that was close to Cassandra’s disgusted noises, Octavia noted. His question finally caught up to her thoughts, she was staring again, watching him.

She wanted laugh, or hide. Anything, really, to get her out of his amused gaze. She flushed, the pink on her cheeks turning bright red as she reached out, palm up. “No, I-I was merely going to ask if you wanted me to help with the pain in your back and if I could take your shirt to the cleaner.”

“No, thank you,” he grinned at her, “Just tell me where I need to go so I can get a fresh one and maybe purchase a few more for my travels.”

“Oh, no worries about that, the Inquisition will cover the cost.” She looked away, turning towards the door. “Go down to the markets if you want to get more, tell them to bill me and the cleaner is in the second tower to the left of here, near the bathing chambers, conveniently enough.” She was speaking fast, the room felt warmer by the minute as Alistair began to remove his undershirt.

She caught a glimpse of his skin, taunt with muscles and scars. There was a large one across his back that had her burning with questions. She gulped, missed the door handle, pitched forward and hit her nose on the door, trying to leave quickly.

“Are you alright?” He took a step towards her, worry evident in his voice but she held her hand up to stop him, grasped the handle once more and opened it carefully as she sighed.

“I’m… _fine_.” She mumbled, embarrassment so thick in the air she could barely talk. She closed the door behind her and left Alistair in his chambers, confused.

“That was… _weird_ , right?” he asked Griffons, who sat at the Warden’s feet and barked in agreement.

Octavia leaned against the door, angry at herself when she heard him mumble something and the dog barked. She flushed bright pink again. So far, she’d made a terrible impression. He probably thought her incompetent or foolhardy. She groaned, taking her leave and heading towards the scouts encampment on the upper levels.

She flagged down the Scout Leader as she arrived at the top of the stairway, making her way to the table packed with parchments and quills. There were several cages filled with birds lining the edge of the keep walls.

“Good afternoon, Riley. How are the ravens?” She peeked into one of the cages, the bird squawked at her while the others spread their wings and shook themselves – their feathers flustered in the process.

“They’re quite restless, your worship.” The scout grinned at her while Octavia wrote a note to Lelianna.

“Good, they’ll be swift then.” She handed the woman the note, who hesitated. “Out with it,” Octavia sighed the words, crossing her arms and watching her, expectantly. “What is it?” She quipped, not having the time to spare to dawdle. The scout frowned, unsure if she should bother the Inquisitor with such information.

“Ma’am, there’s a problem in the south of Crestwood – a High Dragon lurks through some of the ravens communication flights and it’s becoming an issue,” she pointed at the cages on the other side, they were all empty. They were losing a lot of them.

Octavia blinked, “A High Dragon?” she curses under her breath, putting her hands on her hips. “That’s not a small problem, Riley, that’s a _major_ problem.”

“Aye, some of our men have gone missing, including our best scout while getting most of this intelligence.” She handed Octavia a stack of papers which she quickly glanced through. She groaned, rubbing her temple.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Alistair leaving his chambers from below; he was still shirtless with a different pair of pants on – leather from what she could tell. They hung low on his narrow hips – she could almost see the upper curve of his ass. She swallowed, berating herself a little, but enjoying the view none the less.

He was carrying a load of clothing and his sleeping pack with a towel draped over his shoulder. She heard a sharp, deep bark that made Alistair jump a bit.

“Hey now, stop that. You’ll get into the baths too.” The mabari bounced up slightly, tail wagging with its large tongue sticking out as he followed his master close, almost tripping the lad. He must be headed to the showers…

“Ma’am?”

Octavia looked at the scout, narrowing her eyes in confusion, which made the other woman nervous, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She had forgotten what they were talking about, no thanks to a shirtless warden.

Oh, _right_. Dragons, and missing scouts.

“I’ll look into it, don’t send this message yet then, until I’ve taken down the dragon,” she warned, smiling to put the other woman at ease. This seemed to work. The scout smiled, pleased that the Inquisitor took her request. Octavia waved goodbye and headed below to saddle her Red Hart, it nuzzled her in greeting when she reached its stall. She had to go to the tavern and find Iron Bull, but it was on top of the dam, a bit out of the way, in her opinion. They had to go over the intelligence on the dragon and cook up a plan to defeat it, and she was sure he would be very pleased with the news.

When she arrived at the tavern, she found it to be nearly full with people – which surprised her. Considering not even twenty-four hours ago it was barely liveable; it had a small face lift, enough to be rid of its dampness and initial smell of rot. There was even a server at the bar, welcoming her. The patrons closest to her turned, cheering at her for acquiring this obviously missed place.

She blushed, unsure what to do with the praise.

“Just doing my job,” she murmured at them, trying to untangle herself from the attention. She scans the crowd for a Qunari and luckily for her, he wasn’t too hard to find, considering. However, she did not expect to see Hawke there.

“Boss! Sit with us, nice seeing you here,” he waved her down; she nodded at him and made her way, trying to avoid a few drunks. The minstrel bard strummed her fingers on the lute, humming _Empress of Fire_ and Octavia wondered if all the bards in Thedas had the same list of music for the taverns. Hell, Orlais had an Orlesian bard signing the exact same songs in their native language.

“How do you feel about dragons, Bull?” She asked before plopping herself down on one of the stools closest to him.

“How do I feel about it?” His grin answered any doubt, his sharp pointed teeth almost flashing in the dark, “I do believe I’ve explained the sentiment to you before, Inquisitor.” He laughed when her face scrunched up, remembering.

“Please tell me he shouted _Taarsidath-an halsaam_.” Hawke grinned when Bull nodded, winking at her with his one good eye.

“Ah, yes, how could I forget?” Octavia shook her head. “Well, we’re going to fight another one, and she’s a bit more… _shocking_.” She wiggled her brows, smiling.

They both stared at her, not finding the humour and Iron Bull tried to mimic her eyebrow movement. “That’s hard to do,” he pointed out, Hawke rolled her eyes.

“Oh,” Octavia’s cheeks flushed. “Well it might help if you knew the dragon was a master of thunder magic.”

“Oh, no.” Hawke let out an insufferable sigh. “Your humour is _worse_ than Alistair’s,” she deadpanned, taking the paper from her hands and looking through them. Iron Bull only let out a grumble of laughter, approving of the comment. He called for another round of drinks when the server nodded towards them.

Hawke put the papers back down on the table and stared at the Inquisitor. “Mages are going to be useless in this fight, I’m warning you now.”

“Why do you say that?” Octavia raised a brow.

“By the sounds of these reports, it’s highly resistant to elemental magics. You’d do better with a hoard of warriors, archers or rogues and some spirit bombs thrown at it – maybe even some Antivan Fire bombs.”

“I’d have to agree, boss. Vivienne would have been way handier here with her magic sword than Dorian.” Iron Bull, scrutinized his own paper, still grinning.

“Well, she’s sitting in Skyhold, unfortunately for us.” She rubbed her forehead, this was complicated.

“I’m sure Dorian will be pleased to know he’ll be the barrier bitch, again.” Bull laughed when Octavia groaned, Dorian hadn’t appreciated the fact that his necromancy had been entirely useless during the fight with the dragon in the Hinterlands, except when the wyverns came out and he could take control of those to fight the mother. Octavia still felt guilty about it. The baby dragons that is, not Dorian’s complaining.

“Plus, I hate fighting dragons.” Hawke interrupted her thoughts, “I have a soft spot for them.” The mage leaned back, making room for the server as they dropped three mugs of ale on the table. The Champion took a sip, grimacing – it tasted like piss. “Take Alistair – he’s pretty proficient in killing them.” Hawke winked at her, Octavia could tell she was trying to suppress a grin. The inquisitor narrowed her eyes, wondering just what the champion was getting to. “You know, he killed quite a few during the Blight.”

“He has?” She hadn’t heard that part before, a bubble of excitement pooling in her belly as she thought about a new piece of history for her to discover.

“Yes, and I’m sure if you ask long enough, he’ll tell you all about it, against his will.” Hawke smiled, nodding at someone behind the Inquisitor.

“Well, she doesn’t have to _pester_ me; I actually _like_ talking about the dragons that _aren’t_ archdemons.” Alistair took a seat next to Octavia, taking Hawke’s flask for himself – he knew she wouldn’t drink anymore of it, she hated Ferelden ale.

He took a large gulp, the coolness nearly making him sigh with joy. It had been a while since he could just sit down in the open and have a drink. Hiding was not a habit he enjoyed.

“No armour?” Octavia mentioned, taking a sip of her own flask, he can see her delicate brow rise and her lips turned into a smirk. He could feel her eyes on him, ignoring the small thrilled sensation it gave him the depth of his gut. He huffed, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt in the process. He felt naked without the heavy gear but he didn’t want to chance anything.

“Considering two Wardens were sniffing around for me earlier in the week near the village, I figured it would be best not to draw attention to myself.” He was already feeling a bit nervous, meeting the Inquisitor to drink, the last thing he needed was loose lips talking about a Warden with the Inquisition.

Then again, Blackwall was with them, it may be old news that there was a Warden in the ranks of the Inquisition and no one had come looking for _that_ guy _,_ which Alistair found kind of strange. He had yet been able to pin down the elder Warden for a conversation on all the strange information he had been feeding Octavia.

A matter for another time, he told himself. He noticed the Inquisitor’s gaze again. It still lingering on him far too long. He grinned at her when she reached his face; the slight blush on her cheeks was worth the tease.

“Is that shirt from the merchants, or part of your wardrobe?” She asked before taking another long sip from her flask, he nodded. She had been caught staring, she admonished herself – he was far too handsome for her own good. His red hair was more noticeable now and the wet hair look was a bit much for her sensibilities.

“Yes, pretty much the entirety of my meager wardenrobe was filthy,” he pinched his brow in disgust, shaking his head. “And, to add to my misery, the person in charge of cleaning clothes did not look impressed with all the holes in my socks.”

“Wardenrobe?” Octavia burst out laughing, Hawke only rolled her eyes and left the table, dragging Iron Bull with her, whom protested loudly, wanting to hear about the dragon slaying.

“Yes,” he grinned, laughing a bit. He took another sip of the flask, eyeing her – her cheeks were flushed with humour and he noticed how her eyes crinkle with a few crow’s feet dusting them. “Glad to see someone else appreciate my witty one…” He swallowed, his smile faltering for a moment. Octavia raised a brow, curious.

“I-I mean,” he stutters strangely, trying to forget those words ‘ _That’s what I’m here for, to deliver unpleasant news and witty one liners_ ,’ he tried to forget her smile, it was a long time ago. “I’m glad, that someone appreciates my terrible humour.”

“According to Hawke, she was very distressed that I have similar humour as yours,” Octavia chuckled, nodding at him when he gasped.

“Maker’s balls,” he laughed, nearly slapping the table, “Andraste should take mercy on these poor souls.”

“As she should,” the Inquisitor laughed, taking another sip. She waved to the waiter and ordered another round of drinks, opting for the wine this time. As much as she liked Ferelden Ale, she could handle only so much.

“So tell me about your High Dragon conquests, in the blight.” She nearly purred. Alistair grinned at her, finishing the drink in one big gulp.

“What would you like to know? I hear you’ve already killed one, I’m not sure how I would be much of help.” He winked at her, his hands spread themselves across the wood and she stared at them for a moment – she could see thick scars and callouses; his hands look worn and far from gentle. He’s a warrior, true and true.

“Well, to be honest, I’m a bit of a history scholar,” she almost looked embarrassed, and Alistair became genuinely interested.

“Oh?”

“Yes, I have a particular interest in the Blight and the Wardens.”

“Lucky for you, then – I am a Warden and _was_ in the Blight, even stabbed an Archdemon a little bit.” He made the stabbing motion with his sword hand, smiling. His mouth had her a bit distracted.

“I know, quite lucky indeed.” She blushed a bit, but the light from the candles and fireplace wasn’t very good, so she hoped he didn’t notice.

“Well, let me think,” He leaned back just a bit, thinking – the server arrived with their drinks and put them on the table with such loud _thunks_ , Octavia was sure the table might have split.

“The only one I can really think of that was pretty amazing was the High Dragon at Haven,” he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to recall the details.

“There was a High Dragon at Haven?” She could hardly believe it, that place was such a holy ground, even buried under hundreds of feet of snow, people still flocked to it.

“Yes, you see, the cult that was there, led by a fellow named…” He scratched his head, trying to recall, “Kolgrim , I think – I’m terrible with names.” He laughed, Octavia smiled, taking a sip of her wine while he folded his hands around his flask, entwining his fingers around it. “They were tasked with protecting the Temple, but I think over the years their mission got a little skewed.”

That was an understatement, if he had ever made one.

“How skewed?”

“Oh you know, typical cult-ish things, eating the flesh of people, murder, throwing stones at strangers, trying to convince Wardens that Andraste was a dragon, wanting to defile the ashes with dragon blood, etc.” He waved his hands in dismissal – Octavia could only stare with her mouth open.

“That sounds… exciting.”

“Not really. Elissa and I had to clear the whole village, even the children. It was awful – they all tried to kill us. It was terrible once you got into the homes, there were blood sacrifices and altars. It reeked of death.” He shook his head and Octavia’s eyes were as round as gold pieces.

“What? You mean the home I slept in…”

“Elissa and I had probably killed murderous residents in it and there was most likely an altar for blood sacrifice in it, fun times, Haven – highly recommend.”

She took a deep gulp of her wine, trying to ignore the thought.

“That’s really disturbing, but it explains the notes I found in the basement of the chantry there.”

“The Chantry?” He laughed, “The head priest there was the one that convinced everyone to slaughter newcomers, and that _almost_ included the scholar Genitivi before Elissa found him in a secret room inside a wall.” He noticed her looking at him inquisitively – ha, he laughed quietly at his pun. “You know, the one who disappeared, after the urn was found?”

Octavia nodded, recalling who that was.

“Anyways, that whole disturbing debauchery is another story on its own, most people are only interested in the Urn bit of the story, not the murderous villagers bit.”

“Or the dragon part,” she added, grinning.

“Or that part, true enough – so to the good bit, then?”

“Please,” she pouted slightly, she noticed his gaze on her lips as she licked them. He looked away.

“Alright, the High Dragon.” He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the warmth in his belly. “Elissa had encountered a group of followers in some of the tunnels heading towards the temple – there was a lot of ice high up in the mountains and I’d swear Haven was stuck in some perpetual winter.”

The both shivered at the memory of the place.

“These people were… pretty devout and corrupted by something, they were positive the dragon was speaking to them, like an Archdemon, but I can guarantee you, that dragon was just a run-of-the-mill High Dragon,” he sighed.

“Is there such a thing?” She laughed, he shrugged.

“Maker if I know, the Blight was entirely surreal, to be perfectly honest.” He grinned at her again. “Anyway, Elissa made a deal with them that she would “defile” the ashes – which made everyone argue in the group, in particular Lelianna was very upset.”

“Lelianna?” Octavia sputtered and coughed, having swallowed her wine the wrong way at the mention of her advisor.

“Yes, red head bard assassin, she advises you – sends me letters to check in on me even though she hates people and prefers the company of nugs and ravens.” He eyed her curiously. “Did you not know she was part of history, some scholar _you_ are!”

“I’m not a trained one!” She quipped, “And she doesn’t say much – she’s very close guarded.” Octavia defended, Alistair only laughed. “Plus, the blight is like Ferelden’s best worst kept secret. You Wardens keep everything under lock and key and left us only with rumours.”

“Ah, yes. Wardens are bastards that way.” He grinned at her miffed expression. “I’m not surprised about Lelianna, after Elissa died, she disappeared for a while – she had changed, for the worst, if you ask me.” Alistair scratched his chin. “Anyway, this isn’t about your mysterious advisor.” He winked.

“So, the Hero promised to defile the ashes and all hell broke loose in the group.” He took a sip of his drink, feeling the ale warm his throat, “Personally, I was horrified – we needed the ashes to save Arl Eammon and to defile them would be signing his death warrant. Wynne was absolutely angry and Morrigan practically cheered her on.”

“But she did it for good reason, like anything else.” She noticed his frown, there was more to that statement than it implied, she was sure. “With that promise, she obtained a whistle of sorts to call “Andraste” to her -”

“Wait, she had a whistle to call Andraste?” she interrupted him, he blinked at the question, realising he had skipped that part.

“Yes, well – it was more like a _horn_ but, it called the _dragon_. They thought the dragon was Andraste’s reincarnation.” Alistair sighed, and Octavia burst into laughter, which carried him away as well. “I know, right? Completely ridiculous.”

“So she got the horn,” Octavia reminded him, putting him back on track.

“Yes, so, she got the horn, once we were outside, we could see the temple not too far off. It was breath taking,” he smiled wistfully, he could still see Elissa, her cheeks pink from the cold, her breath was in short pants in the freezing air. _She clutched at her daggers but put them away and brought out her bow, eyeing the sky. “There she is, Alistair.” She drew on the string and before he could protest, she let it go._

He cleared his throat.

“The High dragon was perched on a cliff, watching us and Elissa just… shoots an arrow at her.” He gave Octavia a withering glare – the memory still obviously distressing him.

“She _what_?”

“It was a flaming arrow at that, which did nothing since _Andraste_ was a fire breathing dragon.” He rubbed at his temples, as though he still couldn’t believe it. Octavia’s laughter had him smiling.

“That sounds _amazing_ ,” she chuckled.

“It wasn’t, it was reckless. The Hero of Ferelden had an issue with doing things the normal way, like… not shooting at dragon with fire arrows and avoiding them altogether.”

“I’m _sure_ you’re happy I’m going dragon hunting, then.”

“Well, to be honest, I’m in the personal opinion that dragons should be left alone but,” he gave her a slow smile that made her toes curl. She bit her lower lip for a second, “I _would_ feel better about it if I came along,”

“Well,” Octavia cleared her throat, “That depends on your story and your qualifications,” she eyed him up and down, openly. Alistair could feel his ears warming. That… was more than obvious, this time.

“Maybe you should slow down on the drinks, Inquisitor?” He gently teased and she laughed, agreeing.

“True, can’t be hung over for the dragon, tomorrow.” She winked, ordering one last glass of wine. He shook his head, feeling the buzz of booze getting to him. Although Wardens had a very high resistance to liquor, not eating before was coming back to haunt him. He’d have to raid the kitchens down at the keep later to sober up.

“So, the high dragon swept down to us, destroying some ruins – immediately, I taunt the beast to capture her attention while Elissa takes out her daggers, throwing her bow aside since it’s useless.”

She watched him as he explained, his eyes alight with the details, his hands waving in the air, his eyes twinkling when he spoke of the Hero and she realised that he was still very much in love with her and she sighed, taking another sip, unsure how she could compete against a _ghost_.

“Then _Morrigan,_ that sneaky witch, used her necromancy to bring up some skeletons laying around to life for back up while Wynne mends Elissa, and tries to heal me while I keep taunting the dragon off of them.” He pointed at his back, “I still have the scar – that dragon tore right through my armour and almost cut me in half.”

“I’ll have to see for-“ she bit her tongue, blushing. She shouldn’t flirt with him so openly, he wasn’t interested, “I mean, I’m sure it’s impressive.”

He didn’t seem to notice her mistake, he kept talking.

“Fire was spitting everywhere, it was frightening. But she was on her belly now, we had knocked the legs from under her and one of the wings was so full of ice arrows she couldn’t move. It was time to strike and Elissa didn’t miss that chance.”

“She leapt through the air, Lelianna sang a song of courage in the background, arrows following the Hero as she drew her daggers, ready to strike. The dragon howled, stunning the rest of us.”

He grew quiet, his lips pressing together – his memory of Elissa was skewed sometimes, she seemed more exceptional than just a regular person, and he always seemed to exaggerate. He felt as though his memories were pouring out of him, now that he’d spoken about her again, that he had allowed himself to speak about her.

It didn’t feel right.

“Anyway, she killed the High Dragon leaping up her back, scaling the beast like it was nothing.” He pointed at the base of his skull. “Two daggers there, it was all it took to snuff out the life.” He was sombre, maybe the topic too heavy for him. She wasn’t sure.

“Well, you certainly meet the qualifications,” Octavia teased, trying to bring him back to his good humour but he was staring into his flask. The silence grew awkward between them but maybe it was just on her end, he seemed comfortable enough in it.

Maybe it was the wine, but her lips burned with a new question to distract him.

"Do you believe in second chances?" she asked, dipping her middle finger in her glass of wine before tasting it. It was a simple question, he was sure, but the run of emotions that day had him frayed and the booze had wedged the door to his past a bit far too open. He couldn’t curb the emotions she had surged through him.

"Second chances?" He smiled tightly, chuckling sadly. "I _had_ a second chance when I was taken to the Templars," he looked up, catching her gaze. She had a brow raised, surprised at the sound of his bitter tone.

"A third when Duncan took me into the Wardens." _The image of his brother on the bridge still haunted him; crows had pecked out Cailan’s eyes, and the skin was taunt from the cold and rotted by the sun. No King should lie in death as he – Loghain would pay._

_He heard the grunts at first, Elissa readied herself but Alistair stood still, staring at the monster that spat and screeched at them. The blades, Duncan’s blades, were still sticking out the Ogre’s chest and Alistair wept as it charged him, the sound of snow crunching under its bare feet – Ostagar is cold, empty and full of ghosts he could no longer bear. Loghain would die for this treachery; he swore the oath of vengeance to the sky, sword in hand as he rushed the beast. In war, victory._

” A fourth when Elissa let me _love_ her.” _A bastard prince? How positively thrilling! She smiled, he blushed when she touched his arm – her eyes were the colour of rain and he loved the rain… He loved her. He wanted to kiss her._

”A fifth when _she_ ,” he emphasized the word, as though it encompassed all of his feelings, all that she was in that one simple word, but it wasn’t enough to describe her presence, her worth. His voice broke again. “When… when she _took_ the blade from my hand,” he stared at his palm; he could still see the blood on it.

_I love you, Alistair – her voice breaking as she knocked him down on his ass and ripped the sword from his hand – She promised herself that he would not die here, that he would live! She didn’t falter when the archdemon stared at her with its large yellow eyes, the blight seeping from its gut. She took the sword high above her head and heard Alistair scream her name._

_It must be done. She was a Cousland, and Couslands always got the job done. In peace, vigilance._

He could still feel the shake of heartbreak embedded in the memory, the taste of blood on his tongue “She _took_ it from me, to slay the Archdemon and she _died_. She left me to grieve, alone.”

 _She will be missed, more than she will ever know._ _The words fell from his lips at her funeral, she looked asleep on the slab of stone that they had carved into her likeness. He felt a part of him close off, he had no tears left to weep but his heart ached and he felt empty without her._ _In death, sacrifice._

His voice squeezed with the emotion, he was staring at her and Octavia wasn’t smiling anymore, she was staring at the table, her face hidden by the wave of curly hair as they slip from the loosen bun. "Inquisitor," he murmured against the silence in the room, she looked up, he could see dampness in her eyes and a small tremble of her lower lip but he didn’t care at this point - the tavern was nearly empty but it felt full of unwanted eyes and attention.

"I don’t believe in second chances, no. I’ve suffered enough at the hands of fate.” He stood up, wobbled a bit when the booze finally caught up to his tirade and he marched out the door, toward the fortress below. He could feel her eyes on him before the door slammed behind him but, he didn’t look back, he didn’t want to. He was scared, scared he had hurt her, scared he had squashed the little friendship he had built. There was another emotion he didn’t want to recognize or admit he had, budding in his gut.

Maybe it was best this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nope. ;o


	3. Crestwood Part 3 - Warden in... a dragon? [Part 1]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair starts noticing things, about himself, about Octavia and has it only been 24 hours? Maker, give him strength. 
> 
> Thank you elfrooted for the beta and teaching me something new.

Dreams, they linger; rotted and twisted his reality, and it made his skin crawl on a good day. Add the Calling in there and Alistair’s not sure he could trust his own thoughts, let alone the visions that invaded his mind. The memories of Elissa still fluttered in and out, sometime he wondered if they’re fiction or reality – she had become a myth for him, a way to cope with the notion of how much he missed her versus how little he truly knew of her. They hadn’t been together for long, not by a long shot, but that single year with her had marked him deeply. It had _shaped_ him, forged him into a different man he was proud of.

He knew, even now, that the battle cry she used against the Darkspawn haunts his own, it’s a torch he’s held for so long he’s not sure how to fight without the memory in the back of his mind. He’s tried to forget over the years, how she fought and how she moved against their enemy – he _tried_ to change the memory of the way she raised his sword above her head and struck down the Archdemon. He didn’t want to remember how her scarred lips pulled back, how her voice broke into a scream, he didn’t want to remember the tears on her cheeks when the sword slid through the bone and everything turned white. 

He tried to forget the _silence_ of that light, how it enveloped them and suffocated all noises, all life in that tiny area above Fort Drakon in Denerim. He wanted to forget the feeling of the air pushed out of his lungs while he screamed her name, to forget the sensation against his skin when the light burned through his gear – hot, cold at the same time - when the Archdemon’s soul tried to pass into Elissa but it was _denied_ new life. She took it with her into the void of death and _left_ him, left everyone she loved alone. 

She didn’t mean harm by it, he knew that… sort of. Despite his anger at the time, his grief, he couldn’t even imagine what that felt like, what _she_ felt when the old soul was consumed by her own and disappeared.

On the worst of days, or nights, he couldn’t seem to forget how she felt under his fingers, under his lips. He couldn’t forget the sorrow that followed her death – so consumed by it, he couldn’t even recall the first year after her and barely the second. Grief had taken more from him than he himself had given to Elissa while she had been alive and breathing his name, his scent. 

Their love haunted him, weighed him down and all he wanted to do is drown in the memories of them, of their short affair. Despite his indulgences with others, despite his rise through the ranks of the Grey Wardens, despite his _focus_ , he couldn’t get rid of the pain he felt. The heart ache still lingered and he was tired of it.

He stirred from his half-awakened state, unpleasant memories sunk back down and he blinked slowly – it took a moment for him to realise where he was. The lack of dripping water threw him off and he’s warmer than usual – there was no dampness to chill him to the bone. 

“Right, I’m in the Fort, with the Inquisition.” He yawned, stretching under the covers. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since he’d left the cave behind. His status changed from _Order Deserter_ to _Refugee with the Inquisition_. 

No longer running, well, _sort of_. 

The Wardens were still searching, for him and his… so called _treachery._ The absurdness of it hung over him like an accusation. The whole thing made him angry – the calling, the false allegations and even the simple idea that everyone in his Order believed that the false Calling was a _real_ thing. 

It didn’t make sense. 

They all knew Wardens had an average of thirty years of life with the taint. How did it make any lick of sense to Clarel that, regardless if someone joined six months ago or twenty-nine years ago, they would all get the notification that it was time to go crawling into the deep roads and die like good little soldiers? There was something amiss, he couldn’t tell what, but he was close. He could feel it, deep into his bones.

He sighed, burying himself deeper into the warmth of his bed before letting his arm fall over his eyes, hoping to drown out some of the sunlight that was sneaking in under the door. Griffons grumbled at him, Alistair could feel the dog’s weight shift in his bed and he had to resist the urge to push the _space hogger_ off. Spooning a dog wasn’t his… preferred sleeping position, he’d much rather have something soft, female – and possibly one that had black hair tied in a bun. He felt his cheek warm at the thought of the inquisitor.

“Rise and shine, Warden!” Iron Bull’s voice boomed into Alistair’s room, startled him enough into sitting up. Griffons hopped off the bed, barking at the stranger’s voice. 

“I’m up!” Alistair grumbled, “Th-Thank you, uh,” he tried to recall the name, “Bull.” He kicked off the blankets, scratched at his stomach and smacked his lips, realising his night of drinking with Octavia had him parched more than normal. He squinted his eyes, dread settling into the pit of his belly - which had the nerve to grumble in protest with hunger. 

_The Inquisitor_.

“Boss is leaving in an hour, get your ass ready.” Iron Bull banged on the door again, one last thump to keep the Warden’s attention. “We’re going dragon huntin’.” Alistair could practically _hear_ the grin, sharp tooth and everything. 

“Right, that.” He cleared his throat, trying to figure out if he had the time he needed to prepare. “I’ll be at the gates-“ 

“No,” Bull was already moving away from the room, Alistair had to lean forward a bit to hear him. “Meet Octavia up by the Scouts camp on the second level, she’s got shit to hand out.” Groaning, Alistair let his feet hit the cold ground before he grabbed his gear from the chair and carefully started to pull it on. The Grey Warden emblem glinted proudly in the little light he had, he fingered the edge of the griffon wings absently on his breast plate while he pulled it over his head, and satisfied with its position, he made sure all the leather straps were bound correctly around his chest, his arms and legs. He slipped on the boots, polishing some of the scuffs out of the metal before giving himself a one last look over. 

It would have been easier had there been a partner to help him, he missed that about the barracks. His thoughts drifted to the precious afternoon, when Octavia helped him. He could still feel her fingers and the weight of them against his gear, the warmth of them… He cleared his throat, feeling a bit strange. Quickly, he decided to leave his sword and shield behind for the moment, he was going to settle an argument with his stomach first then meet with Octavia and pray to the Maker it wasn’t going to be an _awkward_ meeting. 

He squinted, thinking about his last… _thoughts_.

 _Who was he kidding_ ; he had been an absolute ass last night – walking out on her. His mouth had been filled with bitterness and sorrow that had poured out of him. She didn’t deserve to get the brunt of his frustration. It had gotten the best of him, unwillingly, no thanks to the mead loosening his careful control and she _had_ asked him something entirely innocent. 

Probably. 

He doubted it had anything to do with him in particular… he _hoped_ he had read far too much into it. He tried to ignore the rising sense of panic in his gut – the weird fluttering feeling he had when his thoughts deviated towards the Inquisitor… that hadn’t happened to him in years. The last time was with Elissa. He swallowed at the realisation that maybe he had _a bit_ of interest in her. 

_Do you believe in second chances?_

Where had Octavia tried to go with that question, exactly? There was _certainly_ something… between them – a mutual interest? He didn’t want to hope. 

Was he hoping?

He wasn’t sure. He’d had a few trysts with other Wardens, nothing serious – one nights here and there, no emotional attachments was always the agreement and no repeats. It was something that had been needed at the time to clear the mind and the flesh. 

But this, well… she was leaving him _wondering_. They had flirted a little, all innocent so far as he could tell – she was attractive. But her question had seemed _bold_ , or… unreasonable. He was worn and _tired_ , she didn’t really know what he was or who he was, just the legend that followed him, the shadow of the Hero. He was certainly no prize, as far as he was concerned. 

He tried to think on the mood that had lingered between them last night and for the love of the Maker he couldn’t figure out just what she had meant, and where she had wanted to go with the questions. 

He sighed, the thoughts still twirling relentlessly in his head while he stepped outside with Griffons on his heels, tail and tongue wagging – the _dog_ that is, not him – and ran straight into Octavia. 

Literally. 

Their bodies collided, metal against leather, her _oomph_ to his _Andraste’s knickers!_ mixing between the sounds of shattering glass. It was fairly amusing to onlookers, mostly to Iron Bull, whose bark of laughter was hard to miss through the courtyard. 

Alistair caught her arm before she entirely wiped out on him, he somehow managed to save a few flasks from falling to the ground and keeping the Inquisitor fairly steady on her feet. 

“I’m sorry!” Their words trip against each other. Octavia looked irate and Alistair’s cheeks warmed in shame at his lack of attention. 

“I shouldn’t have been so close to the door, I apologise, Alistair,” Octavia sighed, rubbing her temple while examining the broken flasks on the ground. At least her elixirs hadn’t been in them, which would have been messy, and probably dangerous. 

“Well, I should have looked before stepping out,” he quickly retorted. She looked at him and caught his sheepish smile. Snorting lightly, she shook her head. 

“Alright,” she motioned towards the Scouts with her head, “you can make it up to me by helping for a few minutes, then.” She winked at him. Smiling, Alistair shooed Griffons back into their room, warning the Mabari that he’d come back with food and a broom to clean the glass. Griffons whined but hopped back into the bed, his back to his master. 

“He’s upset with me,” Alistair sighed, falling into step with the Inquisitor, making their way to the stairs. 

“He’s not the only one,” she jested, laughing – he didn’t know what she meant by that but he thought all the wrong things, over analysing her words, again. The anxiety of his apology festered under his skin and it itches. 

“Are you… _are_ you upset with me?” He mumbled, giving her a long side glance when she looked at him, humming in confusion to his question. 

“No?” She laughed, grinning at him and he’s even more confused. “I meant the Wardens are upset with you, as well, not just Griffons.” 

“Oh.” He blinked, brows raised a bit. They climbed the stairs to the scout’s camp, disquieted by his overactive thoughts, he couldn’t wait any longer. “Octavia,” It was the first time he’d spoken her name out loud and it was foreign on his tongue, it tingled – it _excited_ him for some unknown reason and he felt anxious. “I have to speak with you about last night.” 

She groaned, bit her lower lip when she glanced his way. His gaze is focused on the way the teeth dented the flesh and he resisted mimicking her.

“Do we have to?” She sighed, clearly reluctant. He let out a chuckle. 

“Believe me, I would rather not, but I feel we _must_ , that is – if you don’t mind.” 

She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Alright.” 

Octavia continued upwards until they reached the landing, she pointed at a table that has bottles, papers and other alchemy items strewn across it. She placed the few bottles that survived their encounter onto it and turned towards him, looking at him expectantly.

“Talk,” she put him on the spot, her hands busying themselves with the flasks. He gathered his thoughts as he watched her take some ingredients aside and starts to mix them. 

“Right,” Alistair fidgeted, nervous – he felt odd, remembering a younger version of himself thumbing a rose in the middle of Lothering, thinking of things he shouldn’t be thinking of. “I wanted to apologise-“ 

“For what?” She scrutinized him, and he fidgets even further, rubbing the back of his neck. Her delicate brow knitted together, Alistair ignored his interest in it, or how he admired the length of her fingers that expertly measured the powders and poured them into liquids he can’t identify.

“If you’d let me finish,” he quipped, a bit irritated that she was interrupting him again, it took everything in him not to press his fingers against his temples and rub his hands across his face.

“Oh, right.” She blushed and he collected the little courage he had, again. But just as he opened his mouth, she cuts him off once more. “I have a terrible habit of interrupting people,” she shook her head and he sighed. 

“I noticed.” 

“I did it again, didn’t I?” She groaned, her cheeks reddening slightly before she buried her face in her hands to hide herself.

“Maybe,” he smiled, at ease with her and resisted the urge to take her hands away so he could keep looking at her blush. Idly, he wondered what her hands would feel like in his, with his thumb rubbing the back of it. 

“The Maker picked the wrong girl for this job,” she mumbled through her fingers before returning to her task, her blush still kissing her cheeks. Alistair cleared his throat, catching her attention once more. 

“As I was saying,” she huffed at him but his smile was still growing, teasing her, “I wanted to apologise for my… _reaction_ , as it were, from last night – in the tavern.” 

“Nothing to apologise for, Alistair,” she glanced at him, frowning. He was pleased at the sound of his name, coming from her mouth and he felt a twinge in his chest – familiar, forgotten over the years. “If anything, I should be the one doing so.” 

He scratched his chin, fingers brushing the stubble thoroughly as he considered her words. “Why would you? To me, of all things.” Her laughter warmed him, he was a bit taken with it, actually.

“Well,” she cleared her throat, thinking. “I prodded, pried, asked far too personal questions to satisfy my own… _selfish_ needs.” She didn’t tell him why it was selfish but he took her explanation as it were, a matter of _fact_. “Plus, mead always loosens my tongue, I’m not sure why I keep drinking it.”

He tried not to smile when her face scrunched up in disgust. He had wondered how she was feeling after their night but didn’t ask, it seemed obvious enough. 

“Well, I could have handled it better,” he offered and she nodded, agreeing. 

“True, I’ll give on that one.” She picks up a flask, eyes the bright orange liquid. Alistair squints, wondering what she’s was doing. Bull _had_ said something about her needing to hand out some potions or vials of sorts? 

“Apology accepted?” He tentatively asked, admiring her profile while she was busy looking elsewhere. Her nose crinkles at whatever she was looking at and her lips perked a bit, seemingly satisfied.

“For us both?” She added to his question, she took another set of flasks and shook it, this one glowed purple, and he could feel the electric vibe form it on his skin. She made another satisfied sound, gathering them to put in a bag. 

“Yes, I would say- what are you doing?” His curiosity finally reached a breaking point, and Octavia grinned at him. 

“I’m making my flasks for the battle, and preparing a few lightning salves to help us against the High Dragon.” 

“Shouldn’t your healers or mages be doing that?” He recalled Morrigan doing all that, during the blight. Even with the Wardens, it was the mages who took care of salves, potions and such things. The rogues certainly didn’t spend their time in the alchemy lab. 

“You are correct but, as a Tempest, I only trust myself to have my elixirs done correctly and,” she handed him a few of the bright purple potions, amongst others, “Dorian is a wonderful mage. But I would rather work on these myself.” She smiled, sheepishly, feeling the need to justify herself. “He can use his incredible talents with all the… other potions.” 

Alistair let out a bark of laughter, startling her. “A bit of a control freak, then? How _positively_ quaint.” He chuckled, amused at this little bit of information.

“I am not!” She pressed her lips together, irritated. He winked at her and took the opportunity to leave, looking for the kitchens to fill his belly. He also promised a certain dog the same and he was sure Griffons was either eating or destroying his pillow right about now; he had delayed his promise long enough. 

“Don’t forget, we leave-” 

“Yes, yes – one hour, I know. Dragon killing and such _fun_ adventures.” He semi-waved, feeling more at ease than he had in years.

* * *

He looked up, blinking, wondering just what they were even doing here. The water was still dripping from the door frames of the abandoned home that was recently recovered from the lake. The smell was almost enough to make him want to retch. Then again, ten years at the bottom of a lake with the dead floating inside the houses wouldn’t leave a pleasant _anything_ if he really thought about it.

“I thought you said we were going _dragon_ hunting.” Alistair poked at the seaweed hanging from the ceiling with the tip of his sword, Octavia hummed, looking through the rubble. Iron Bull grunted, agreeing with Alistair’s sentiment on the whole… digging through the _dead_. “So, could you please tell me why we’re inside this watery grave?”

“We _are_ going dragon hunting, but this is on the way and,” she grunted, lifting the cover of a large chest after expertly picking the lock, “I promised the Chantry Sister in Crestwood to find…” she picked up a piece of paper from the chest, frowning. It was oddly dry, considering. Maybe the chest had been charmed to keep out the water, Alistair thought. 

“Find what?” He approached her, looking over her shoulder to read and Octavia didn’t move, allowing him to see. “What is that?” His gaze was focused on the yellowing parchment, he moved up closer behind her, his chin leaning over her shoulder and Octavia swallowed hard, if she moved a little bit, her temple could easily rub against his chin. 

“Uh – it’s a note from the Mayor of Crestwood,” she fidgeted, “well, the _New_ Crestwood, he was also Mayor of this old one.” 

“And what is so fas-“ he turned to look at her, half smiling when he realised just how close they were to each other. His gaze fixed on her lips and he took a step back, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry – what’s so fascinating about the letter?” 

Octavia raised a brow, was he blushing? 

“He’s admitting to killing the villagers, the healthy ones _and_ the blighted ones,” she folded the piece of paper and sighed. Why people insisted on lying to her, she would never know.

“The Blighted people?” 

“Yes, this village was partially overrun by Darkspawn during the blight,” Octavia said as she watched Alistair frown, he was trying to recall the details on where the Blight had taken hold – he did faintly remember something about this village but he didn’t know they had opened the dam on the place. 

“I didn’t… realise they had killed everyone off like this.” He felt an unease, it would explain why there were demons and lurkers around – where the Blight had touched, such things followed. 

“A lot of the villagers were tainted and it spread amongst the others when refugees from Lothering, and other areas, came through for safe passage.” 

“Boss,” Iron Bull knocked on the door frame, interrupting them. Octavia looked at the Qunari, waited on him to keep talking. “Your friend is back.” He pointed a horn at a glowing orange wisp coming up the path and she chuckled. 

“Is… is that a spirit?” Alistair blinked when the wisp materialised before him, in the shade of the Mayor’s old home. It hovered, tipping its head towards Octavia. The orange was almost luminescent, but Alistair could still see the details of it. It was _amazing,_ if not slightly terrifying. 

“Have you killed it yet? I would like to return, this world does not listen to me.” The Command Spirit asked, its voice heavy, strange in duality. Alistair felt as though it was taking all the space it could in the small, rotting room. Octavia could see that it was still irked and the Inquisitor shook her head, crossing her arms in defiance. She was not intimidated in the least. 

“I told you I would do it, did I not?” the Inquisitor retorted, “I will report to you as soon as the deed is done.” 

The Spirit weaved in and out of sight as it considered Octavia’s response, and Alistair is sure it’s giving its best glare – not that he can tell, hollowed eyes weren’t the best things to _read_. 

Eventually it umphed at them, turning on its… tail? And it made its way out of the home, back to wandering the paths, waiting for its request to be filled by the Inquisitor. Alistair couldn't help but be reminded of his time on the road with Elissa. It seemed that all they did to appease the masses and gain the approval of their peers was fill request after request. 

He felt a pang of pity for them, at least they had horses – unlike them, back in the day... he chuckled, he sounded like an old man. Octavia glanced at him when she heard him laugh, curious to know what exactly he found funny.

“I wish Cole were here, he could have given me a bit more insight on how to deal with Spirits like that.” Alistair heard her sigh; she took a gander around to the other rooms, still searching for whatever she promised the Chantry Sister. 

“Cole is a… mage?” Alistair guessed; squinting his eyes while he watched the orange blob make its way across the abandoned village. 

“No, he’s a Spirit.” Her voice was muffled through the walls of the room she was in, there was wood cracking as she smashed something else open. Of all the answers he expected, that wasn’t one of them. 

“A _what_?” 

She ignored him, she wasn’t in the mood to go into detail about Cole. 

“Alright, lets head up towards the High Dragon,” Octavia wiped at the sweat on her temple – there was a chill in the air from the dampness and Alistair was eager to leave this place. It was full of the dead, reminders of the Blight and that last part reminded him of other things. “When we come back later, I will mark the graves that need to be cleared so the Chantry sister can burn the bodies in her ritual.” 

“Oh. Is that what we were doing?” Alistair smirked, and Octavia narrowed her eyes at him.

“I don’t think a funeral can be construed as a _ritual_ ,” Dorian cut in. “Unless your definition of ritual is different from mine.” 

“It’s vastly different,” the Inquisitor grinned. 

“You _Fereldans_ will see the simplest magic as a threat, far too quick to bury your lives before finding another solution.” The Mage smirked at her, his fingers gripping his staff as he joined them once they started on their path once more. Octavia shook her head, rolling her eyes. 

“Is that a pot shot at Commander Cullen? Tevinter is an anomaly, Dorian—“

Suddenly, her hand glowed green. Octavia clutched the wrist and hissed at the unusual pull of it, she hadn’t expected it to act up and was taken off guard. Alistair was instantly at her side, reaching out for her. He took her hand in his to look at the phenomenon without any fear for his own safety, which surprised her. Usually, the people’s initial reaction was to either scream or wonder about its abilities. They never worried about _her_.

“What’s happening?” He was careful not to touch the green parts of her mark but he figured it was safe since she had her other hand right in the center of it. She marveled at his tone, it was soft, worried and her chest tightened with warmth.

“That is the _Mark_ , Warden, and it means that there is a rift near us,” Dorian provided as a simple explanation, Octavia opened and closed her hand while looking around – she spot it, there between the homes, and it was not too far into the distance. She quickly decided if they should close it now or wait for later. 

“Does it hurt?” Alistair was looking at her, focusing her attention on him once more. His expression serious – his amber eyes dark, despite the light of the morning. She blinked, the small upward curve of her lips was not missed by his gaze. 

“It’s more of a tingle, like when your arm is asleep.” She took her hand back from his and shook it, trying to take the numbness out. “We will have to come take care of it later,” Bull groaned, disappointed. He flexed his shoulders, almost considered going ahead but Dorian put his hand on his arm, shaking his head, and Bull complied. 

“When we seek out the Rage Demon inside the caves, we will close it on our way in, since the entrance is through the village.” Octavia almost laughed, the mercenary’s ears twitched in excitement.

 _Rage Demon?_ Alistair frowned, he hadn’t heard about this. “Is that what the Spirit wants you to kill?” 

Octavia nodded, still rubbing her hand and Alistair resisted the urge to go to her again. The anxiety of her pain was strange to him – he hadn’t felt that kind of empathy since… well _since_ Elissa. 

“The rift will make the dead rise from the lake,” she pointed at the receding shores, he can see bones of the dead in the sands and rubble – he’s sure there’s more under the waves. If he recalled Redcliffe correctly, not that he would _ever_ forget even if he wanted to, demons _were_ usually the source of relentless hordes of undead. 

“We need all the strength we can keep for the dragon and getting into another fight before we even tackle her is a bad decision.” Alistair nodded in agreement, adjusting his shield on his back. His eyes were still on the shore and he could see some sort of green glow coming from below the water – the similarity between Octavia’s hand and that didn’t go amiss by the Warden. He saw the team move out and he followed, a bad feeling festering in his gut. 

The trek was fairly uneventful, their mounts steadily making progress over the hills – they abandoned the planned trail when unwelcomed company blocked their path. They avoided bands of bandits or, maybe the bandits were avoiding them, he wasn't sure – Octavia and her Hart wandered up near the cave where they met and, quickly dismounting, she crouched near something. There was a body laying at the base of the rocks and she groaned. 

“Fuck,” Iron Bull spits, aggravated, and Dorian tsked, clearly unhappy as well.

“Who’s that?” Alistair peeked over, he could see that the man was one of the Inquisition’s scouts. “Someone you were looking for?” 

“Yes, Charter’s man, Butcher. One of her best scouts, whatever took him down must have been pretty devious.” The qunari grunted, disgusted with the state of the body. From what Alistair could tell, it looked like he’d been dead for a while; the buzzards had already taken its meal from him. 

Octavia took the dead man’s tags, tucking them into her pocket and pulled up any remaining items that his superior, and friend, may want to keep. “Animal bites, I can’t really tell otherwise, might be a murder too – there’s strange correspondence on him.” She dusted off her gear – eyeing the horizon, she didn’t notice how Alistair was watching her every move, thinking. 

“One of our camps is ahead, let’s rest up a bit.” 

No one objected. They guided the horses towards the camp, a comfortable silence between them and once they arrive, the scout greeted the Inquisitor, happy, worried and nervous. Interesting combination, and Alistair wondered what had them all worked up. 

“Ma’am - the High Dragon was spotted over the hill, a head.” She pointed towards a farm house that was gutted. “It’s taken residence in some old ruins, tread carefully.” 

Octavia quietly thanked her for the report, her eye on the horizon. 

“You’re kind of amazing,” Alistair said, without thinking. 

“I’m what?” She stared at him, not sure if she heard him correctly. 

“You really are, I mean – taking on all these little requests, you certainly don’t have to,” he adjusted his gloves, still staring at her. She fidgeted under his gaze, feeling a bit hot. 

“Well, it’s the least I can do. So many people perished at the Conclave, including my own brother. All for this mark.” She brought her hand up, the glow coming to life as she stared at it. “I’m not even sure if it will work, in the end.” She shrugged. 

Alistair chuckled, he’d had that fear before. Octavia broke open one of the purple flasks, Dorian did the same and told Bull to spin around for him so he could coat him. The qunari complied and Octavia did the same to Alistair. 

“Let me,” she motioned and he took off his sword and shield, waiting for her to put the salve on him. Her fingers worked the crevices of his gear, coating the metals especially, since the lightning could easily harm him if it made contact. 

Soft pressure he tried to ignore and failed. 

“Should you also cover the shield?” She asked, and he couldn't find his tongue. 

“Uh – yes. Otherwise the uhm, the _dragon breath_ will buzz right through the metal of the shield and numb my arms.” He nodded, she left another flask out for him to use for his shield. She turned, handing him another one in passing. 

“Do me, now.”

He blinked, fought the urge to say something stupid like _Right here? We’re not alone, you know._ She didn’t mean it that way, he reminded himself. It was difficult to resist but he somehow managed. 

He took his time, his fingers touching her over her gear – he contoured the metals, the leathers – avoided the bits that might offend, mentioning she should probably do that herself and she laughed. He felt a bit at peace, both hands working and she let out a sigh of pleasure when he gave her shoulders a squeeze for good measure.

He gulped, his mind wandering into dangerous territory. He was definitely _interested_ , he couldn’t deny it anymore, nor did he wish to but did he want to take it further? Was this just a fling? Or something _more_. Did he want it to be something more?

Questions, questions. Never answers. 

“Alright, let’s get going.” He whispered, and Octavia snapped back to reality; she had been enjoying this little break a little too much and to distract herself, she checked her weapons. 

Alistair’s fingers were still tingling with the memory of her – he didn't want to stop and the revelation of it frightened him. He picked up his discarded gear and coated his shield quickly, appreciating the thickness of the salve – it was perfect, well balanced. He was impressed, again. 

“Dorian, test.” He heard Octavia, watched her turn towards the mage and before he could even ask what she was doing, the hair on his neck bristled. There was a sharp tang of magic in the air and everything turned purple. 

“Maker’s breath!” he blinked, clutching his shield in front of him for protection. Dorian laughed, watching Alistair peek over his shield with far too many questions. 

“Have to make sure it works, right?” The mage smirked at the Warden, who sighed a breath of relief. “I would hate to see our lovely Inquisitor fry to a well-timed Dragon Breath.” 

“That wouldn’t do, no.” She winked at Alistair and he chose to ignore them, unwilling to partake in the humour.

They left the camp, their mounts tied and safely out of the way. It was a short trek to the ruins the Scout spoke of and Alistair stood behind Octavia at first, searching the sky for the Dragon. 

“There she is.” Octavia pointed with her knife – the High Dragon spread her wings, as though she knew she was being spoken of. The large leathery wings flicked, gusts of wind picking up dirt as she lifted up off the ground. 

“Look at her,” Iron Bull was shaking, reaching back for his great axe and he was burning with anticipation. Alistair felt the prickle of magic as Dorian began to summon barriers to protect them, swearing in Tevinter under his breath. 

“Always with the barriers. Someday I’ll be used for something far more productive, I would hope, Inquisitor?” Dorian asks, despite the complaint in his tone, Alistair could see the man’s determination in his eyes. Dorian wouldn’t fail at his duty, Alistair could feel it deep down in his gut. He turned, his attention back on the High Dragon.

“Ready, Alistair?” Octavia was transfixed on the beast, and so was he. 

There was a rumble, the ground shook with each step the dragon took. She screeched and Alistair felt the pang of excitement take a hold of him, his blood sang – hummed even.

“Ready.” 

The dragon turned her attention towards the group that stood at the top of the hill, she crouched and suddenly let out another roar, this time flooding the whole area with purple fire. She was far, but the magic still made his skin pucker, tingle.

Maker, let them live through this, Alistair prayed – he grinned at Octavia when she winked at him. 

“Let’s go.”


	4. Crestwood - Part 4: Warden in.... a dragon? [Part 2]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's worst? A dragon's bite or an Inquisitor's nibble? Alistair wonders and Octavia blushes.
> 
> Thank you elfrooted for battling the flu and betaing this for me ;o
> 
> EDIT - I think I fixed most of the POV problems, if you see any that isn't clear, please tell me so I can clarify further. I'll update the tumblr version in a bit when I get home from work.

The heat was stifling, heavy with humidity, and to add to the misery, the sun was high above them in the sky, unforgiving. _Hot_.

The Warden noticed the dryness of the ground and was a bit surprised. It hadn’t stopped raining for weeks and suddenly it was like some sort of desert in this part of Crestwood. The dust easily kicked up under his feet as though to prove his point.

 _That would become a problem_ , he thought and Alistair wondered, for just a moment, what exactly he was doing here. He wiped the sweat on his brow with the back of his leather gloves, his gaze flicking quickly between each person that surrounded him.

Octavia’s blades glinted, catching his attention. _Right_. His undulated feelings for the inquisitor were the source of this madness. He was _supposed_ to be done fighting dragons, so he had told himself, many years ago - the last one he helped kill rotted away in some hole in Weisshaupt. The Archdemon’s blood was magically harnessed, its bones mounted on the walls of Elissa’s _Hero of the Fifth Blight Tomb_ inside the fortress.

The joining was saved for a few more centuries thanks to her _sacrifice_ and his _cowardice_ , he thought bitterly.

He took in a breath, steeled himself against the beast’s eyes and pushed away all other ideas that would distract him. The Northern Hunter’s leather wings spread and moved slow, heavy with the weight of its own flesh and the ground shook with each step she took. The dragon had noticed them earlier but had made no move towards them so far.

She watched – they stalked. A mutual agreement that someone or _something_ was going to die after this and Alistair hoped for the latter. Octavia charged, flipped her daggers in her hands - Iron Bull followed, Dorian’s fingers sparked with magic and Alistair panicked.

“Is that really wise? _Just charging_?” Alistair asked and the inquisitor laughed – unsure how to answer him.

“Is fighting a dragon _ever_ wise?” Questions she shouldn’t be asked in the middle of pointing her weapons at her target, which opened its jaws, rearing an attack. Octavia heard it breathe in, heard the air fill the lungs and she wondered if the salves were enough to protect them all – this wasn’t the day to make a vital mistake.

“Only during the _Blight_.” He spoke the words just barely loud enough for her to hear and she had to agree on that one.

The spark of lightning filled the air.

Octavia felt the thrill of battle flutter inside of her – it was sharp, a tingle of excitement that set her blood on fire and she couldn’t help the grin that split her lips. Her teeth rattled with every step; Thedas trembled under the dragon, groaned under the weight and Octavia heard it calling for her and she would answer.

Her nimble fingers reached for her belt and she pulled her first potion out. The energy of her Fire Elixir thrummed across her skin, the familiar heat of it gave her the confidence she needed to face the High Dragon that stalked the grounds, slithering expertly through the ruins with a mixture of flight and gait.

She saw Alistair from the corner of her eye, shield held up high to protect himself as the High Dragon turned its attention to him – he gained ground on Octavia, passed her with long legged strides and he was still charging ahead with no fear, no doubt. His war cry was heavy on his lips, echoing throughout the wide open space of their battlefield.

She shrouded herself against the light, invisible for a few moments, and as she sneaked around the ruins to get into a better position. While she crossed the field, she watched Alistair. He pounded his shield with his sword, his voice loud – _booming_ \-- as he taunted the burgandy dragon towards him. It was beautiful, in its own way – a purple head, stripped white at the tail and the body was almost a dusty burgundy.

He braced against the oncoming attack, one foot in front of the other and leaned forward, tucking his head behind the shield in protection, pulling his shoulders in; the air filled with the spark of electricity when she roared. Her fire was purple, _beautiful_ – Octavia was a bit mesmerised and she was impressed how Alistair didn’t flinch, only tucked himself even smaller and waited it out.

Iron Bull laughed, his energy swept her along as his eyes turned red, blood on his lip – he was a Reaver through and through. He twirled the great axe in his hands and rushed past Alistair once the area was safe of the fire. Dorian laid another barrier, she heard him swear _Kaffas!_ at Bull’s impatience and lack of attention.

Once the blood lust had taken hold of The Bull, it was hard to get his focus back from his target.

Alistair yelled again, there was a white glow about him, she wasn’t sure what he was doing at first– his eyes were strange and he raised his sword up into the air. She felt the pull of something around them. The ground beneath their feet grew bright and he pounded the shield again.

“Pay attention to _me_ , now.” He shouted at the High Dragon, “I’m the problem you need to worry about.” His voice pleasantly vibrated through Octavia, his confidence fuelling her own. He struck its leg; the dragon took a tentative swipe at him, her claws extended. He elegantly avoided the attack with a side step and a crass shield bash to her front leg that made the dragon screech.

Octavia was nearly in position, another dose of Fire Elixir and she leaped up into the air and stabbed the Dragon in the hind leg, marking it for her team to focus their attention. The dragon kicked back, barely missing the Tempest.

Dorian got to work; he set the grass on fire. It was a wall of flames and smoke, so high it panicked the beast – the mage sparked and jolted, conjuring any frightening thing he could do, knowing full well the Dragon couldn’t be harmed by his magic, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t about to put on a good show. He hummed; smoke filled the battle field that satisfied him on a primal level – a plan coming _together_. Dorian leaned against his staff, counted the moments before he could conjure the barriers again.

“Shit,” Iron Bull moved in to the marked leg, smoke was in his eyes, his nostrils flared out but he didn’t slow down. “You had to pick the back leg, boss.” He hacked, slashed with his axe – blood poured out of the wounds and Octavia could hear the bones of the beast resisting the strikes.

“It’s not called _Front Stab_ , Bull.” She quipped, her voice wavered under the effort of her attacks. She didn’t miss the mercenary’s hearty laughter at her joke.

The High Dragon shrieked, a sound so high pitched it staggered the group long enough for the beast to limp away, her wings beat the air and stirred up the dust and smoke and made it even harder to see. The dangers of this kind of plan, the Tevinter thought.

Dorian was the first to recover and he coated their surroundings with ice, stilling the dirt from blinding them further. He smirked and the dragon slipped on the frozen ground, losing her footing. The idea worked, sort of – at least she stopped flicking her wings into a frenzy.

Alistair charged again – he was precise in his taunts, precise with the sweeps of the sword. The dragon bent her large head towards him, her leathery lips pulled back, exposing her teeth to him, he closed his eyes. Alistair shimmered white again – his movements were far too familiar to Octavia and she realised he was _Templar_ trained – the _rumours_ were true.

There was a tug of air around them, something shimmered above his head and struck the dragon. She screeched again, snapping her teeth, the sound unnerving even for the grittiest of warrior, but Alistair didn’t falter.

Her wings expanded as she prepared to beat them again but the Warden struck her in the mouth, sword wedged between the teeth and he pulled back, hard, unforgiving. She snapped one tooth clear, and then another, the sword slicing through the gum. Blood dripped down his blade all the way to the hilt, and he pressed harder still, trying to get more to break under the pressure of his touch.

“I’m not that tasty,” he grunted, grinning. The dragon screeched again, the sound so loud it rang in his ears and scrambled his thoughts. He pulled the weapon out of her mouth, blood spilled to the ground and the dragon swiped at him, panicked.

“Watch out!” Iron Bull warned, rushing in at a strange speed and knocked the dragon back far enough to stun her if just for a second. It was all he needed. Alistair ducked low, scrambling to the ground and pulled his shield for protection. The clawed hand slammed down, searching for him with quick sweeps under her. She slammed it down again when her large eyes found him on the ground, practically under her.

He rolled away; the dragon missed him by mere inches. He grunted, scrambling to stand, sword sticking up and Octavia rushed in. She took the chance to cut the tender side of her arm, wounding it open.

“Now, now. No one wants me in their mouth, dragon – being a _Warden_ and all; the blood is a bit on the _bitter_ side.” He quipped, banging his sword against his shield, claiming the dragon’s attention once more. That was close, even for him.

Octavia chuckled at his comment and begged to differ, quietly.

She moved back to dragon’s back legs, weaving in and out of the beast’s steps as it struggled and stomped, trying to squash both her and Iron Bull. There was so much dust, and smoke, Octavia had trouble seeing.

Smirking, she’d love to know just what Alistair tas-

“Oomph!”

Her feet lifted off the ground, the swipe from the dragon’s back leg came unexpectedly – she flew backwards, her body crumpling on the ground a few stones away, she fell in a heap and her breath was effectively knocked out of her. She wheezed, the pain crawled up her spine and ribs and she clutched desperately onto her daggers.

She heard Alistair shout her name, Iron Bull’s inquisitive _Boss? You alright?_ as he hacked and slashed at the dragon’s legs and wings to distract her. She heard Dorian’s footsteps hurrying towards her and suddenly the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

“Stay away!” She threw her hands up to stop the mage, who obeyed flawlessly. Her eyes watched the ground. A bright purple circle surrounded each of them and the energy sparked on her skin, the salves numbing the pain of it. She hoped they were going to last through this, the heat and the fight had them all sweating profusely.

The High Dragon made a grunting noise, a screech of sorts and suddenly all she could see was the purest white. The prettiest purple hues she had ever laid her eyes on and strange black flashes.

Octavia screamed, the thunder striking her throughout her body – it crackled in her ears, something was burning inside of her in the worst way possible. She felt scrambled, tossed and fried.

She was frozen – _paralyzed_ into place. The others yelled, Iron Bull laughed, struggling to keep moving but he was still _moving_. The salves were done, Octavia thought, numbingly. They would have to end this quickly or they would not survive another direct skin to lightning attack.

“Do your worst, dragon.” The words were strained, Iron Bull laughed between each grunt. His blood boiled; the smell of the dying dragon made him crazy. His muscles fought the paralysis and the High Dragon took the opportunity to hop backwards and in that one spare moment of peace, she stood on her hind legs and spread her wings.

The Mercenary had seen _that_ move before.

“Brace yourselves!” The mercenary shouted, as best he could. The effect of the last attack had barely worn off and suddenly they were being sucked in – the wings weaved the wind, pulled them towards her and the dragon’s chest expanded, preparing the next attack while they were vulnerable.

Alistair tracked Octavia, her body dragged across the field from the sheer force of the dragon’s wings and he somehow managed to stay on his feet. Dust was in his nose, his eyes and his lungs burned with a cough he wouldn’t allow.

“Octavia?” He shouted, again and again. He lost her in the wind, her voice swallowed by the dust storm and he felt panic rise like poison in his gut.

“ _Fasta vass_ , damnable dragon.” Dorian’s magic wavered, the blue of the shield decaying as he lost concentration. He struggled to keep upright; his fingers worked another barrier spell. The team shimmered blue, Alistair spotted her thanks to the glow of it and he rushes to her, shield at the ready.

He grabbed her, his shield covering both of them as the dragon dropped down to her feet. He heard it screech once more, the tingle of her paralysing attack barely registering. He pulled Octavia even closer, crushing her to him, her body flush against his.

“Maker! Stay close, Octavia.” He grunted the words and he hoped they weren’t lost to the wind. He _breathed_ her in, relieved that she was safe. He braced himself, the purple flame of thunder blanketed the whole area, and the buzz of it bit at his shield, vibrating though the leather bindings and he was grateful for the lightning salve Octavia had coated it with.

He could see the lightning’s spark dance between the griffon wings of his shield and he marvelled at it, distracting himself from other thoughts. Such as trying to ignore how Octavia’s fingers grasped him tightly, how the feeling tingled at his hips and how her nose was crushed against the crook of his neck, near his ear.

He swallowed hard, realising the position they’re in is a bit _intimate_.

He could feel her breath against his skin, sweat slick between them – he could smell the salve and _something_ else. He tried not to think it was her soap, he tried not to commit it to memory but it was already too late. Now wasn’t the time to focus on her, he had to focus on the dragon trying to _eat_ them. He holds steady, his determination triumphing over distraction. Her mouth brushed against his jaw. He faltered, holding his breath in surprise, he swore she was smiling.

Octavia’s heart was beating hard – she couldn’t help the smile – her body was humming, trembling under their contact. Was it caused by the adrenaline of nearly being hit by the attack or was it because Alistair had leapt in to cover her in some fit of protection?

Was it because her mouth was against the edge of his jaw and the taste of his sweat was on her lips? Was it because his fingers were delicately holding onto her back, his thumb pressing against her spine and making her shiver? Was it because his thigh was at the apex of hers and she could feel the pressure of it against her sex?

She wanted to dip her head further and just nip his skin with her teeth. She just wanted to let herself steal one _little_ moment of fantasy while his jaw twitched under the stress of the dragon’s breath attack. Probably not the best time to be opportunistic, but who was she to judge the Maker’s little windows of pleasure?

She nibbled her lower lip; he’s distracted by the beast. What’s to stop her?

She _does_ it.

Her teeth nipped the skin, her tongue swiped quickly against the sweat and she almost sighed. Alistair felt something soft and sharp against his jaw, he blinked, turning his head to look at her.

“Did you just...?” he barely had the chance to ask. Something bright green filled his vision.

“I’m sorry, I-“ she babbled, embarrassed to be caught, embarrassed she took the opportunity without really thinking of the consequences.

Another light flashed brightly, purple this time, he heard a bottle shatter on the ground and realised she’d used another one of her Tempest Elixirs, the purple one if he recalled correctly. The inquisitor’s hand illuminated him, green and purple mixed eerily – she smiled. Her eyes were full of mirth and laughter just before she disappeared from his sight.

She _did_. The little _minx_.

He allowed himself a grin, the skin on his jaw tingled where her touch still lingered and he wondered what had made her so bold. His thoughts were interrupted – he heard another rumble, this one was a little bit different. The High Dragon’s breath stuttered to a stop, screeched again but it did not stun them. In fact, the beast sounded in terrible pain.

Alistair looked over his shield. He could hear the sound of daggers _– Octavia’s daggers_ – slicing the wings and the legs of the dragon. It was all a blur – her speed was so intense he could barely see her. The area was flooded with a strange yellow green light.

Iron Bull’s shadow surprises him and Dorian was not too far behind as they gather to watch the Inquisitor do her work. The Dragon stumbled, bleeding heavily – it tried to fly but Octavia had punctured her wings with too many holes, the ground was stained red with its blood. The dragon swiped her tail from side to side, slammed her hands into the ground, nearly knocking everyone off their feet from the tremble but they managed to stay upright. Walls of the ruins crumbled, fell around them.

“What’s happening?” Alistair’s shield dropped down a bit, his eyes tried to track her but he can’t quite catch her.

“The Inquisitor’s special little gift, from the _Fade_.” Dorian supplies while he leaned against his staff, fixing the cuffs of his shirt while he stared at the dying dragon, lips curled upwards in a grin.

“Is that where the mark on her hand came from?” Alistair is even more curious, if not more _concerned_ for her.

“No one is really sure, to be perfectly honest.” Dorian turns his attention to the Warden. “She survived the conclave by dropping out of the fade – how did she do it? Only Andraste knows, from what she’s told.” He could see the questions in Alistair’s frown, but Dorian had no answers to offer – he was still searching himself. “Mystery of mysteries, our little inquisitor, wouldn’t you say?” Dorian winked at him, his focus back on the show.

Alistair couldn’t agree more with a statement like that. His opinion of the Inquisitor was changing by the second – nothing he’d known so far he could use to really pin down who she was … or who she should be. Over the years, he’d like to think he was a better judge of character than in his youth.

“Look at that,” Iron Bull’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “A Thousand Cuts in the blink of an eye - the inquisitor doesn’t fuck around.” His laughter was almost catching, Alistair grinned with the Mercenary.

There was a flash of purple – Octavia appeared in front of Dorian, her brow poured with sweat and her chest heaved with a breath she couldn’t catch.

“Now, Dorian – Freeze her legs.”

“As you wish,” Dorian slammed his staff into the ground, hands weaving the elements unknown to the Warden and Alistair felt the air cool around them. The dragon limped, baring her broken teeth at the team, blood poured from her flesh, the scaled armour chipped and bristled from Octavia’s attacks. She tried to spread her wings once more.

Alistair almost felt sorry for the beast.

The Warden's breath puffed out white, snowflakes floated silently as the ground shook and the dragon screeched her rage. Alistair stuck out his tongue and let the flake drop onto it. Octavia laughed and he quickly put his tongue back in, blushing. _Dear Maker,_ had he really done that in the middle of battle?

The ground became slick with ice, there was a glyph forming in the air and Dorian snapped his fingers. Before Alistair knew what was going on, the dragon’s feet were buried in layers of thick ice. Already, the dragon was tugging her feet, the ice cracking, splitting under the strength of the beast.

“Not much time, Octavia, she’s resistant to my magic.” Dorian warned, the Inquisitor nods and Iron Bull charges, leaning down enough for Octavia to grab his horn in passing. She hopped up on his back and climbed him carefully, holding on to his head while her feet remained planted on his shoulders.

Alistair couldn’t understand just what was happening.

“You _got_ this, Boss.” Bull said with so much confidence that even Alistair believed it.

“I got this.” She leaped from him, daggers out – the dragon took in a breath and opened her jaws wide, threatening the Inquisitor effectively. Octavia swallowed, worried. Purple flames poured out endlessly in a final attack.

The rogue disappeared; Alistair held his breath and the dragon dropped dead.

“Maker’s breath,” Dorian sighed, unimpressed. “She does that far too often.”

“Does what, exactly?” Alistair felt the wave of worry dig at his gut, where was she?

“Using the thunder elixirs at the last second; I know it’s a tactic but Maker’s Throne, it’s _terrifying_.” He turned on his heel, walking back towards the camp. “I’ll be at camp, resting, if she’s looking for me – I care not to crack open the beast. Unpleasant business, if I might add.”

Alistair saw her head appear behind the dragon’s horns, she pulled out her daggers from the back of the beast’s neck – exactly where Alistair had said she should go for if she wanted a quick death. Octavia slid down and she staggered once her feet touched the ground. She was exhausted, grinning – and rubbing her hand far too much. Alistair frowned, sheathing his sword before setting his shield on his back. Something was wrong with her.

“Did you see that?” She asked, laughing, “Because I’m not doing it again.” Iron Bull nodded, his great axe already swinging up to strike the head from the body. This would be a great trophy at Skyhold.

“You know you will, if I have anything to say about it. We should work on throwing you more.” Iron Bull grinned, pleased with their little surprise attack and how well it worked.

“I think I’m too heavy for that particular move,” she shook her head, she hadn’t really want to do it in the first place but she hadn’t been sure how else she was supposed to get up there in a pinch. “I’m not Sera.”

“No, you’re not a little elf. But you should really consider archery – can you just imagine?” Iron Bull sighed wistfully, thinking of a shower of arrows and an Inquisitor flying through the enemies.

“ _Mayhem_ ,” she mimicked Iron Bull’s voice, laughing at his approving grin. She was still rubbing her hand, and now her arm – she seemed unsteady on her feet, Alistair thought. She turned towards him, her smile faltered just enough for him to notice and he moved _towards_ her, taking the hint and lending out his arm. She took it gratefully, her weight leaning on him and he doesn’t say anything, merely nods but still clear his throat.

“I’ll be back, Bull, just taking the Inquisitor to camp.” He announced half-heartedly. He could see something in her eyes she was not willing to share here. He understood.

“Take your time, I _like_ this part.” Iron Bull grunted out, Alistair could hear the hack of flesh, the great axe cutting through the scales with little resistance now that the dragon was dead. “I’ll bring back what I find, if I can carry it.”

Alistair waved, but the Mercenary was already turned away, busy with the corpse. Alistair pursed his lips in wonder, the fight still humming in his veins. There was something about fighting dragons – of all the things he’s challenged and killed in his life, dragons always made his blood _sing_.

Octavia cleared her throat, glancing his way for a moment before looking straight ahead. Their walk was silent – not uncomfortable -- but she was a bit worn out and her nerves were frayed from the fight. Her… _impulse_ with the Warden wasn’t helping either; Maker she was an idiot, how was she going to explain her biting him?

Her hand twitched, pain flaring again. She wasn’t used to the mark entirely yet and this new ability drained her more than she liked to admit. At least this time, she didn’t pass out from using a Thousand Cuts, a term Iron Bull had coined for the move. She would argue that she didn’t think it was a thousand per say, but she couldn’t keep track considering how fast she was going.

She narrowed her eyes slightly, her thoughts wandering back to the man next to her. She wasn’t sure she _liked_ the fact that Alistair had known right away there was something wrong. He could read her; he could tell what she was thinking just with a simple glance and it had only been two days since they’d met.

“ _Sooo_.” He drawled, his eyes focused on the dirt road and how slow his steps were, following Octavia’s lead since she was the one struggling to keep the pace. “I take it this is a skill you’re not entirely familiar with? Considering how you’re shaking.”

Octavia blinked, taking her free hand to look at it, she could see the shake there – she hadn’t felt it at all. She fisted her hand, the glow brightening for a moment before it stilled and disappeared. She couldn't help but frown.

“That’s pretty observant of you, Alistair.” She tried not to let her tone change too much.

“I’d like to think I pay attention to my surrounding,” he quipped, glancing down at her and smirking. “Especially when I have a vested interest in the… _cause_ I’m getting involved in.”

She quirked a brow.

“Only a _passing_ interest?” She asked, casually, her gaze on the boulders stacked further ahead. The question was loaded and Alistair knew it. He shrugs, not ready to answer her real question – he wasn’t even sure he was reading her intent correctly.

Well, he _wanted_ to think she was interested and her little bite had certainly resolved some of his wonder. The question was: what did _she_ want?

“Changing the topic, are you?” He teased, and she shrugged – trying not to smile. “I should let you know that I am an expert at diversion and you… _didn’t_ answer my question, Inquisitor.” He tipped his head towards her, smiling – she was trying to get out of it and he wasn’t about to let her. Octavia sighed.

“You would be correct, I only used it once before.” She nodded, her hand flexed subconsciously in the crook of his elbow.

“How does it, uh, turn on? If that’s _even_ the word to use.” His confusion made her laugh.

“That’s one way to put it.” She pats his forearm with her free hand, earning a sheepish grin from him and she let her hand linger there. She liked how his lips curved. “Uhm, I guess when I’m exhausted enough?”

He raised a brow. “Exhausted? That’s… a bit unusual.”

“Yes, I would say so – I just get this feeling in my hand when it’s ready to be used.” That was an understatement, the searing pain in her hand made it hard to ignore. It consumed her until she used it. He didn’t need to know that; no one did. “It’s hard to explain. It’s not like this came with an instruction manual.”

“What? _How to Herald_ wasn’t part of the deal when the Fade seared its green tattoo unto your hand?” Alistair quipped with indignation and she snorts out a bark of laughter.

“I know, I was terribly offended when I woke from my comfortable sleep, in chains with Cassandra’s sword at my throat – how _dare_ the Fade not give me instructions?”

“That’s _terrible_ ; I hope you made a complaint to Andraste personally.”

“Oh. Immediately.”

There was a pause of silence between them, Alistair’s eyes were twinkling with amusement and they both burst into laughter.

“Maker. Hawke is right, we have terrible humour.” Alistair grinned at her and she nodded in agreement.

“My turn, then?” She glances up, slowing her step – she wasn’t ready to scale the hill, she still felt shaky and unsteady on her feet.

“On what.”

“Special things we noticed about the other and didn’t know.”

“Special? Such as?” He was genuinely curious, there wasn’t much that was secret about him, and it was all in the history books – not that there was a large section on _The Bastard Prince That Didn’t Claim The Throne_. According to the nobles, Maric was rolling in his grave and he didn’t care what _they_ thought.

“I thought the rumours of your Templar background were incorrect.”

“They are – I’m _not_ a Templar,” he confirmed to her. She raised her brows in surprise. “I never took the vows and I’m just a recruit that got away from the _evil_ clutches of the Chantry.” He emphasised the word evil with little clawed hands, Octavia snorted.

“You jest; you were more than a recruit Ser Warden. I recognize your moves.” She imitated the symbol for a Cleanse and Alistair flinched, expecting the push of it. It didn’t come. He blinked. “I’d say you were about to take your vows, graduating if I might be bold.” She added, curious on his reaction.

“And, how do you know... these moves? Considering you were just looking?” He swallowed, feeling twitchy.

“Most of my family have been active members of the order for generations; in fact I was supposed to be inducted into the order.” She spoke thoughtfully, thinking of her brother. “My brother was one of the senior members of the Ostwick Circle, but he perished at the conclave; he was the one who recommended that I pledge myself.”

“Oh.” Alistair pressed his lips together slightly, his heart breaking a bit. “I’m sorry for your loss, and for your Templar plans not working out.” Although he was glad she hadn’t gone and pledged herself to them.

Octavia shrugged.

“It’s fine. I miss my brother, of course. I wasn’t keen on becoming a Templar, especially after hearing all the terrible things the Chantry puts them through.” She remembered her conversations in Cullen’s office at Skyhold – he hadn’t painted a pretty picture. “Commander Cullen has been a vast pool of information on the suffering of Templars and how Mages have also suffered under the Chantry.” She stopped walking, biting her lower lip for a second, her hands squeezed his elbow and forearm to get his attention. “How are you able to use the abilities without the Lyrium?”

“Ah, there it is. The _dreaded_ question.” Alistair looks up, his fingers scratching through the stubble on his chin. “It has a lot to do with the way Wardens are made, there’s a heavy use of lyrium that doesn’t really go away in your blood.”

Octavia hums, thinking.

“I mean, my abilities aren’t very strong, they’re enough to shut a Darkspawn Mage up, stun it – or even protect my subordinates in a pinch. Worst comes to worst, I’ll take a Lyrium potion and drink it to gain the full force of the abilities.” He shrugs, aware that his explanation wasn’t nearly good enough. “I don’t drink it regularly so I haven’t really developed a dependence on it like the Chantry Templars. But when I do use it, it’s kind of amazing, if I do say so.”

“Is it now?” Octavia chuckled and Alistair nodded sagely.

“In fact, some _like_ the way it makes my eyes glow in the darkness of the deep roads.” He thought of Elissa, the way she had squealed in the middle of their fight within the Thaigs. She had practically mowed her way to him when he first used a Holy Smite to knock out the Darkspawn mages that had been gaining on them. _“Do it again, Ser Templar.”_

The sex had been pretty amazing that night. He cleared his thoughts, now wasn’t the time to get lost in memories.

“Your eyes glow? Really? When you go _all Templar_?” Octavia’s eyes twinkled, thinking of it, trying to imagine it. He scrunched up his nose at her term of his ability.

“Apparently, yes. _All Templar_? Is that what we’re going with?” He shook his head. “I haven’t really seen it myself – it’s hard to find mirrors in the dark and it’s not like I can just conjure up a Smite whenever I feel like it.”

“Well, if your eyes are glowing, you should be able to see it in some _reflective_ surface, like your shield.” She points at his back. “Next time you should flip it around mid-battle and take a look? I mean, your shield is pretty shinny.”

Alistair narrowed his eyes at her, “Where would I find the time to… I don’t need _your kind_ of logic in this little debate.”

“It’s just a little conversation, Alistair, no need to be crossed.” She was smirking, almost proud. Alistair huffed. Mumbling how he wasn’t crossed at all. To distract her, he tugged her along slightly to put them back on track to camp. She seemed to be recovering from earlier.

He was relieved.

“Should we… _converse_ on the _biting_ incident that happened during the fight? Maybe you would care to elaborate, if that would be alright?” He reached up to his jaw, index and thumb grazing the spot she nipped with her teeth and tongue. Octavia blushed, looking at anywhere but there.

“I don’t recall _biting_ , anything. You’ll have to be more precise, there was a lot going on.” Sheepishly, she glanced at him, nerves firing with each step. She could still taste him on her tongue, the tang of sweat, the feel of his heart beat in that split moment–

“Should I _remind_ you, perhaps?” He gently guides her towards the boulders they’d been steadily approaching. It was out of sight of curious onlookers at camp, if they were even watching. He’s smiling at her, and she lets out a little nervous laugh. _Good sign_ , he thought. “Unless of course, you would rather I _didn’t_ … remind you.”

“Oh. Well. In that case, I do believe it would be best to try. It would clear up any-“ he spun her around, her back pressed up against the boulder gently and she let out a nervous _Oh!_ which made Alistair chuckle breathlessly. “I mean, it would clear up any confusion, on my part, of what you’re referring to.”

“What a brilliant idea.” Alistair retorted, taking her hand in his. He rubbed the spot of her mark absently with his thumb. His gaze met hers – the intimacy of their silence was just enough to make Octavia nervous, in a _good_ way.

Alistair felt warm under his gear and he wondered where this sudden bravado came from, it wasn’t his usual style… if he _had_ one besides _babbling nervously_ and making an arse of himself. His cheeks were turning red, he was sure of it.

How _suave_.

He’s back peddled ten years in his experience with women and he had to resist the urge to groan at his own body’s shy betrayal. He thanked the maker for his gloves; she wouldn’t be able to feel the nervous sweat slicking it. He swallowed down the lump of nerves and grabbed his courage.

“I do believe it went something a little like… _this_?” He murmured, leaning in close enough to feel her breath against his neck. One of her hands carefully reached for his hip, fingers finding perch on his belt where she tugged him closer to her. He moves in willingly, with her unspoken permission.

“I can’t quite recall,” she squeaked out, clearing her throat almost immediately. She flushed, embarrassed at the sound she just made. _Attractive, Octavia,_ she berates herself but he didn’t laugh or make fun of her, he only gave her a lazy smirk that made her curl her toes with a pang of want.

She was sure her heart was going to burst from her chest – the way he looked at her, gazing through heavy lids, half-cocked grin - body flushed against hers. She could smell his scent and it was enticing – sword oil, sweat, soap and worn out leather.

Alistair motions lightly with his chin and she leans her head sideways unconsciously, giving him access and it’s the confirmation he needed. She felt the same way, since their meeting yesterday. He could see her heart beating under the skin and he couldn’t recall the last time he made anyone react like that since… well since his first lover.

He takes in her scent quietly, putting it to memory. His thigh slipped between hers and pressed up against the conjuncture of her legs; He let his chin lightly graze her jaw. The stubble scratched, gritted and it pebbled her skin – she shivered but a little, just enough for him to feel it and he resists anything further.

She closed her eyes, relishing the feeling of him against her, hoping for more – she could feel him watching her and she tried to keep still, tried not to grin with excitement. She wanted to grab his face, pull his lips to hers and kiss him senseless.

Alistair could tell she was thinking of something _more_ , and by the way she was biting her lip teasingly, she was more than willing to take it from him.

He wanted to; _Maker_ he wanted – _needed_ \-- to hear her sounds. His fingers gripped her hand lightly, gently pulled it up over her head and he pressed it against the boulder. She sighs, a pleasant sound that made him close his eyes, frowning at his control ebbing with each second ticking by.

The stubble of his chin touched her again, his lips brushed the edge of her jaw and he thought about her skin, wondered what she tasted like. He let a breath go out slowly through his nose. The air is warm, moist and hot against her; she squirms. He wants to _nip,_ taste. He wants to hear her _moan_.

“I… can’t seem to recall either – I think the _Calling_ is confusing things.” He whispered, pulling back. He felt out of breath – his heart was erratic, blood rushing through him and he almost felt dizzy with need. Octavia laughed, she was almost as flustered as he was.

“Is that so? I felt we were on the verge of a breakthrough.” She sighed, clearing her throat. Her blush was barely under control.

“Well, tit for tat, and all that.” He winked at her, feeling a bit rusty, shaky – nervous. He pushed off the boulder with his hands, quirked a brow when she tugged at his belt again before letting go and took his offered arm to lean against. “Shall we continue-“ he began to ask but she interrupted him, again.

“Please do,” she mumbled, glancing at him wickedly. Alistair actually _stumbled_ , surprised at her blatant reply.

“I-I meant to camp. Shall we continue to camp!” He straightened, rubbing the back of his neck – _Maker_ what had he gotten himself into.

“Oh.” She blinks, almost disappointed. “Well of _course_. We should rest before we go close the rift under the lake.”

“More glowing involved?” He asked tentatively, worried.

“Indeed. Far _stranger_ glowing mind you. There’s less exhaustion involved though, at least.” Octavia nods, pursing her lips. In other words, she won’t be using a _Thousand Cuts_ again today, Alistair realises.

“Delightful.”


	5. Crestwood - Part 5: Warden in a rift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Underground, in the dark - demons, templars and distractions. Thank you anon-omis for the beta.

_Gold._

The edge of the dream is seeped with it, bright as the sun but Alistair didn’t squint when he looked at it. He heard the soft music, yearned for it. It lingered and dulled his mind; it enticed him to seek something, to seek those he could not see. Music notes drawl from his throat, it pulled at him, it called to him and sleepily he hums the tune.

It’s in his head. It itches – the blood boils inside his veins and he reached for the light – gold shades upon depths of darkness that is ancient with time. It’s all _gold_ and there’s a wisp of red in the distance that flows and ebbs its way to him.

_Elissa? Is that… is that you?_

_Yes_.

Her voice joined with his, the notes striking perfectly, in arpeggio – her smile is a piece of home and _he hums_ , their fingers twinned together. Something doesn’t feel right, her presence – her warmth – it felt slick and vile.

She’d dead. He remembered, sort of – did he _ever_ really forget?

It doesn’t _feel_ like it – she’s here, next to him, despite the fact that her soul doesn’t exist anymore; it was swallowed by the Archdemon in the battle at Denerim when she used his sword to strike the final blow. His voice falters with the memory; the images were sluggish and slow against the music. He opened his eyes and _looked_ at her.

Hollowed cheeks, leathery lips flat against her yellowing teeth – her fingers reached for him, long and boney. She rasped words he couldn’t understand. Blood curled and wound around his feet, dripped from her mouth like wisps of air – it’s black. It’s all black and it stained him as it did her.

The music drowned his fear, drowned his repulsion and he hummed. Her fingers gripped his throat, her bones scrapped against his skin, her teeth against his pulse. His gaze blurred again; her skin is white, blotchy with the taint. Her eyes…

 _Alistair_.

He hummed, notes sticking to his throat, his eyes watered as Elissa’s memory sunk into the darkness of the taint, into the memory of the Blight; gold lights flickered and surrounded him – he wants to find...

 **Alistair**.

The Grey Warden woke, eyes still focused on his dream before he felt a hand on his cheek as it lightly brushed his skin and it sunk in that the words weren’t Elissa’s.

Where is he?

“Hey… _there_ you are.” Octavia’s voice was soft and he reached up to put his hand on hers; he pressed it against his face, gaze flickering to hers. It took a moment for him smile, the calling still heavy on his mind.

She frowned, worriedly.

“Here…” he mumbled, tripping over the words because they’re heavy on his tongue and wedged between his teeth – the calling was getting stronger and resisting it was becoming harder. “H-Here I am.” He couldn’t quite focus and he had trouble moving for a moment, paralysed with thoughts of the forgotten blight and something else.

“Do you _always_ sing in your sleep?” Octavia’s smile brought him back into focus, little by little.

“Only when there’s promise of cheese.” He sat up, the small makeshift bed of the tent creaked under him as he stretched. He noticed that she was actually sitting on his cot, and he wondered when he had started to trust her enough to not wake when she entered his tent. He was a trained warrior, paranoid with the fear of capture – why he had not awakened confused him, if only a little.

He shook the reminiscence of his dream and Elissa’s grasp – Octavia’s presence calmed him oddly enough and he felt a bit more like himself, the song nearly forgotten.

“Figuratively or literally?” One perfect brow perked up, nose twitching slightly and Alistair thought it was cute.

“Oho, I’ll let you figure that one out.” He smirked when she shook her head.

“I don’t recall cheese being part of the deal when you joined our ranks, Ser Warden.”

“You’re in for a surprise, then.” Yawning, he scratched his chin. “Was I really singing?” He inquired, curious – it would be a problem if he started to sound like a lunatic while he slept.

“Yes, a bit haunting, if it wasn’t so terribly off-tune.” Octavia teased and Alistair snorted. He bent over the edge of the cot and picked up his boots, ready to put them on to depart.

“I take it Bull is back from skinning the High Dragon and bathing in her blood?”

The inquisitor grunted, a disgusted sound freely falling from her lips. “Yes, finally. He took longer than I anticipated so it’s nearly dusk and I’ve had to change plans a little.”

“We are still heading for the rift, then?” He didn’t let the note of hope out of his voice; he needed the distraction, desperately.

“Yes,” she bit her lower lip in thought. “I considered not going tonight and pushing it off to tomorrow but I can’t spare another day,” she glanced his way, although she wanted to say more but she shrugged. “There’s the matter of the Wardens to deal with,” and his _fake_ calling, Alistair thought.

“Something becoming _urgent_?” He teased and Octavia didn’t return the smile, her gaze lingered on his mouth. His fingers twitched, a shiver pressed down at the base of his neck when she didn’t say anything.

“Does your problem count? As _urgent_ , that is.” She murmured to him, her words so quiet he almost missed them. Alistair blinked, surprised.

“Me? I can resist—“ He tried to reassure her but there was a rustle outside his tent and the flap opened, part of Bull’s head poked in, interrupting them entirely.

“Boss, we ready to go? The sun’s starting to get pretty low.”

“And whose fault is that?” she quipped at the mercenary, standing up from where she was seated on the cot. Alistair finished lacing his boots, thinking on her words.

“I’d say it was your Maker’s fault? For making High Dragons so damn hard to skin and bone?” Iron bull chuckled when Octavia snorted. She looked over her shoulder and glanced at Alistair who was busy putting his armour back on. She stepped out of the tent, missing how the Warden winced from pain; his muscles were sore from the rest and the previous fight.

He was feeling old, things creaked where they didn’t before and the aches were probably going to do him in later tonight _if_ they got back to the keep.

“No, I’m almost certain it’s your fault, Bull.” Octavia retorted, enticing a chuckle out of the Grey Warden. Alistair straightened out, stretched his shoulders and touched his face, he could still feel the tingle of her hand there and he felt a bit flustered.

He picked up his weapon and shield, the weight of it a familiar comfort, and stepped out through the flap of his tent, the warming sun blinding him for a second and he quickly blinked the brightness away. His gaze landed on Octavia’s back as she gathered her finished potions on the table near the mounts.

 _The Inquisitor_.

The title wedged itself in his throat and he couldn’t swallow it down.

She was interested in him. For sure. No doubt. And he was _definitely_ curious to see where it would potentially lead them but…

There was always a _but_ somewhere, when you were trying to convince yourself that this was a bad idea. And it was. It was a terrible idea.

But… Octavia Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, Leader of the Inquisition, was a mouthful to swallow and it made her larger than life itself.

Much like _Elissa_.

Alistair let his eyes travel down the length of her neck and he wondered what her skin would feel like under his fingertips, how she’d move under his lips once the gear was out of the way…

He cleared his throat.

“More potions?” He approached her and she looked over her shoulder, smiling at him.

“Yes, I added a few frost ones.” She showed him the bottle, it was bright blue, and he could see the ice forming outside of the glass flask.

“What does that one do?”

“Well, it’s a last resort kind of potion if Dorian’s in trouble and you’re busy elsewhere.” Octavia shrugged and he squinted his eyes slightly.

“I’m pretty sure you’re implying this potion gets the attention of the enemy.”

She hummed, quickly glancing at him. “Maybe.”

“Pray tell me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that why you have me? The proverbial _Meat_ Shield?”

“And Bull,” she adds, laughing. “And you are definitely a very good one.”

“A good what?”

“Meat Shield.” She winked at him and Alistair felt his cheeks warm. He cocked a brow, waiting for her to explain. “I’m quite fond of _sausage_ , personally – they taste _amazing._ Especially the Ferelden ones; something about the different spices in them.”

Alistair swallowed, chuckled nervously while he stared at Octavia’s mouth; the tip of her tongue licked her lips.

“Are… are you… ah, _insinuating_ something about, uh.” He was tongue tied, and Octavia smirked slowly at him.

“Pink’s a good colour on you, Warden.” Bull mentioned, passing by them. Alistair sputtered.

“Sunburn! I-it’s a sunburn – you know, all that time in the cave. Terrible on the skin” He argued, turning a deeper shade.

“Nothing to be ashamed of, Warden – I like my axes with that tinted metal.”

 _“Maker’s breath_.” He whispered, exasperated and Octavia’s shoulders shook in quiet laughter. “It’s… It’s not funny!” He tried to look indignant but it only made her laugh more. He felt his lips tug into a smile and he shook his head. He felt at ease with her.

“Alright, enough teasing,” Octavia wiped at her eyes, laughter still lacing her voice.

He wanted to _kiss_ her.

“Yes, please stop harassing the _poor_ Grey Warden.” He quipped, which earned him another snort before they headed out to their mounts.

* * *

It didn’t take long to find the cave, but it still took a few hours of digging through more decrepit homes, and rotting maps, to locate it. Alistair narrowed his eyes as the wisps of bright orange ethereal bodies floated around in and out of the mouth of the cavern. Twilight had settled in, comfortably, and he rubbed his chin with one hand while the other grasped the hilt of his sword.

You don’t need sunlight to go underground – the deep roads had taught him that.

He heard the rustling of paper behind him and looked over his shoulder. The moon was bright and he could see Octavia’s eyes almost shimmer in the pale moonlight.

“I’ve never seen eyes like that.” He told her without really thinking, Octavia looked up from the map and gave him a shrug.

“Mine?”

Alistair nodded, he could see her narrow them and he was worried he had asked the wrong question.

“Me neither, they’re supposed to be grey, not… Fade green.”

“Grey?” Alistair felt his chest tighten. How grey? He wanted to ask if they looked like the storm clouds, or the sky when it was about to rain. He wanted to know the difference between hers and Elissa’s.

“Yes, like my father’s eyes but now… the mark has influenced them.” She folded the paper and tucked it into her chest pocket. She leaned forward over the small chasm and lowered the ladder that was near them. It was old and didn’t look like it could hold much weight, let alone the Qunari’s weight.

“Ready?” She asked, her eyes lingering on Alistair when he approached her. The fire below unnerved him, it was blue or green and it didn’t make a normal crackling, almost sounded like whispers.

“As I can be, yes. Why is the fire that colour?”

“It’s Veil Fire,” Dorian provided, eagerly.

“Do I want to know?” He gave the mage a withering look and Dorian chuckled.

“The memory of Fire, if you _don’t_ want to know. Spirits, Fade things – it will help us see them more clearly.”

“Wonderful.” The Grey Warden mumbled while Octavia descended the ladder, watching the ground below her.

The cave was still damp and slippery even though it had been a few days since the water had retreated. They had to be careful or one wrong step... she didn’t want to think about it.

The village held many secrets; Octavia knew that much from the few letters she managed to save from the rotting chests in the Mayor’s old home. From what she had figured out with the little bits of information, most of the refugees hid inside here during the blight. Most of them had the sickness and had spread it around the village. Aside from that, there were rumours that this is where the darkspawn came from too, ten years ago.

Something just didn’t add up.

Octavia lit one torch with the Veil Fire and smiled sweetly at Dorian as she held out a second torch for _normal_ fire, which he provided with a sigh and a roll of his eyes.

“I’m not a match,” he grumbled.

“I’m sorry Dorian, I promise I’ll get you the finest wine from Antiva when we’re back in Skyhold.” Octavia genuinely apologised. She knew better to ask but everything was wet, including the pocket she kept her kindle for the torches.

“Promises! They best not be empty. I’ll remember such things; especially when beverages are involved.”

“I’m the same, only with cheese.” Alistair added, nodding in conspiracy with the Mage who smiled at him in agreement.

“You two are thick as thieves when it comes to delectable pleasures,” Octavia chuckled when the two men hummed in agreement. She headed first down the corridor of the cave below. Iron Bull followed last, and openly voiced how uncomfortable he felt in the narrow space.

Octavia didn’t listen after that. The smell of the place was all wrong.

The dampness was obvious – the slick rocks covered in some sort of slime, the scent of rot and putrid deep mushrooms growing on the cavern’s surfaces. She could hear water dripping from the stalactites. Every once in a while, her feet would kick an empty bottle, and empty can but the worst was when she’d kick the bones of those who did not escape the flood.

They were _everywhere_.

At first she didn’t recognize what they were, the muck of mud hid them under her feet but stubbing her toe on the skull of one made her swallow hard. It was so… _small_.

“Children. Whole families died here.” Alistair sighed, although it had been over ten years, he still felt in the thick of the blight and the pang of blame sunk into him. He used his foot to move the bones and frowned.

There were no Darkspawn remains in the mix – only humans with signs of the blight. The bones were warped, diseased.

“Something isn’t right,” Alistair looked up, meeting Octavia’s troubled gaze. “If the cave was suddenly flooded and the rumours around the village are that the darkspawn came from here, where are the remains?” He closed his eyes, trying to sense if there was still a lingering presence of them but there was nothing. Not even the lurkers.

“Are you sure-“

“No,” Octavia cut through, her eyes on the furthest part of the cave. She could see the green glow coming from a hole and she hoped there was an easy way to get down there. “I’m not sure the Mayor is telling the truth but I intend to find out.”

Her hand tingled. She closed it, hoping no one would notice but Alistair was too close to her and he was far too observant for his own good. He reached over and gave her shoulder a soft squeeze to reassure her but it didn’t really help. She was tired.

The back of the cave flashed green and she felt a chill go down her spine. She swallowed down her nerves and reached back for her weapons.

“What’s that?” Iron Bull looked around and Octavia narrowed her eyes. There were eerie moans and shuffling echoing throughout the cave.

“Undead,” Alistair provided and Dorian shouted in glee.

“Finally! A necromancer in his element,” he nearly _preened_ , hands wrapped with purple smoke.

“Time to work.” Octavia moved forward and Alistair took the lead, eyes glowing white with energy and his whole aura seemed to glimmer in the darkness.

 _Holy shit_. Octavia blinked, cleared her throat, and smirked. “Going all _Templar_ on us, Alistair?”

[Art by Mensori](http://mensori.tumblr.com/post/123180700400)

“Ha!” The Warden shook his head. “Better to be safe than sorry, as some would say.” He looked over his shoulder, she could feel his energy gathering, almost like a mage. “Why? Do you… _like_ it?”

She could certainly feel his smugness. “That’s for me to know and for you,” she ducked when one of the walking corpses attacked, stabbing it. “To find out.”

“O _ho_.”

Alistair felt the tug against the veil as Dorian weaved his spells; ice, fire, and lightning licked the stones and mowed over the undead – the Warden marvelled at the purple haze of Dorian’s necromancy as the mage took control of the dead and used them against their attackers.

Magic was amazing, and _terrifying_ but he trusted Dorian with his life, easily enough. He watched himself, making sure not to strike Dorian with his abilities. A failure here could kill them. The group made their way through the corridors, dispatching the dead as they rose from their slumber. Alistair could see Octavia faltering at the smaller attackers; it was hard to be angry. These people were wronged ten years ago and now, the rift used them too.

They encountered the pit where the green glow came from, wooden steps spiraled down. Spirits wandered aimlessly, asking them questions, asking them where the Fade had gone. They pushed on, undead attacked and eventually they arrived to their destination.

More corpses lingered, more bedrolls littered the grounds of a watery grave and spirits clung to their old lives, wandering. The Rift was huge and Alistair blinked, never having seen one this close. He’d noticed them before, they felt dangerous and the Demons pouring out of them had him weary but, according to the Inquisitor’s team, she could close them. They just had to distract the Demons for her.

Speaking of which, their target was pretty easy to find considering it was made of fire in the darkness. The Fire Demon stood still, water boiling around it and its minions screeched and crawled around the open space.

“That’s the thing the Commanding Spirit wants us to clean up so they can go back to the fade.” Octavia crouched down behind some debris and Alistair nestled in closer to listen to her plan. “Dorian, you gather as many dead as you can, distract the other demons. Bull and Alistair will focus on the Fire Demon while you and I dispatch the smaller ones. I’ll start absorbing the rift in between attacks.”

Her hand ignited when another demon came out of the rift. She hissed with the pain but kept her focus, rubbing her hand.

“Once the smaller ones are dealt with Dorian will turn the rest of the undead towards our last target and encase it in as much ice as he can spare.”

“You keep its attention, Warden, I’ll hack it.” Bull chuckled, his eyes glowing red with Reaver power.

“I’ll do what I can. Let’s go.” Alistair stood up, jumped over the debris they were hiding behind and shouted, his whole body almost glowing gold and white. The demons turned to him, racing through the deeper waters while Iron Bull gathered the rest – great axe swinging and knocking out the smaller ones in one fell swoop.

Dorian amassed his magic, undead rose from the water to aid them and Octavia disappeared, sneaking by her partners, admiring Alistair’s form while he pulled energy from where ever Templars pulled it from and cleansed the enemy from magic use.

The demons staggered and Alistair cut them down, one by one. Octavia felt her heart beat a little bit harder under her ribs. Now wasn’t the time to admire; they had a mission. She focused again on the rift and frowned.

The Fire Demon hadn’t moved from the rift. It simply watched them.

It was guarding the Rift.

_Shit._

She slipped away, backtracking to Alistair and backstabbed his target, appearing before him. She flipped around him and they were now back to back, defending each other while still keeping their eyes on the attackers.

“What’s wrong?” He huffed, tired. She heard him swallow something from a flask – lyrium?

“The Fire Demon isn’t moving. I can’t get to the rift.”

“I figured as much.” He sprinted away from her, banging his shield and the large demon turned to him. Alistair reached up into the air and pulled something down, invisible at first but she felt the air shift all around her. A bright light shaped like a hammer fell from somewhere above the Demon’s head and stuck it, hard enough to stun it into a stupor and enrage it into action immediately after.

The light had been so _bright_.

The energy it released had been large enough for her to feel it sweep through her body and her surroundings. Octavia had seen the move plenty of times during her visits at the Order and even when her brother showed it to her but never quite like _this_.

“Kaffas!” Dorian was yelling, sputtering in the water. The Smite had knocked him off his feet and stunned him, cutting off his link to the veil and the undead he controlled. Now they were loose and turning on him.

“Fuck.” Iron Bull cut through the enemy, slowly. Dorian couldn’t gather his wit and he tried to get on his feet while digging out more potions out of his pockets to boost himself back to normal. His hands shook.

“Damned Templars,” the Mage shouted.

There was no time. Octavia grasped her Ice Elixir, poured it on herself and let it coat her gear and skin. The cold bit at her – her breath frosted in the air but it didn’t slow her down. Large spears of ice formed around her and they let out a pulse of energy that made the water ripple. The Demons, the undead, all of them turned towards her.

“Come on, look at me.” She whispered. Dorian was on his knees, still shaken and Bull hacked and hacked through the corpses but now, they were changing direction towards Octavia.

Dorian was _safe_.

She felt something hot against her neck and she barely ducked away; the Fire Demon was lured to her as well and Alistair was desperately trying to keep its focus on him. It wasn’t working and his eyes told her as much.

She shouldn’t have used the potion, after all – she should have trusted Iron Bull to get to him on time.

Another swipe, fire burned on top of the water and she flicked her weapons quickly into the beast as much as she could. The rift flared to life again and time ticked away. There would be another opening soon, she had to act.

Her hand ached differently, the pressure familiar – like the time she escaped Haven. Now, if she could just remember the feeling… She brought up her hand, her arm tingled – nerves came to life when she allowed the pain to consume her and a great big sphere of green energy appeared over their heads.

She screamed, angry, hollowed and time stood still.

There was an explosion of sorts, the expansion of energy swallowed the demons and undead w _hole_ ; it pulled them back into the rift all at once, including the fire demon, and suddenly it was dead silent in the cavern except for her team’s collective gasps of breathlessness.

The rift sparked, Octavia grunted and ignored the burning in her arm, ignored the pain in the back of her skull and reached for the rift. The Mark ignited and she staggered under the pressure. Alistair was there in an instant, sword clamoring against the stone under the water as he dropped it to hold her up. She absorbed the rift and leaned on him.

It felt like hours.

There was something wrong with her Mark, she could feel it all the way to her elbow and as she absorbed the rift she let out a low grunt that matched the ache. She frowned, tears pricked her eyes.

This power was still new, still unknown and it _hurt_.

“Just a little more Octavia, come on, you can do it.” Alistair and Dorian were shouting and she could barely hear them. The rift, the mark… it was too much.

“It hurts, it hurts.” She yelled, angry. Her body shook from the violence of the rift’s closure. Alistair kept her between his arms and held her tight as though the act itself could absorb some of the pain from her. He wanted to, Maker he wanted it to.

The rift closed, and she collapsed. Her hand was still glowing bright, her arms were shaking and she whimpered, lost to the pain that was now consuming her.

“Octavia?”

Her name was just a murmur – who had said it? She turned her face into Alistair’s chest, the Griffon emblem cooling her skin and she let out a quiet sob. Why did she allow herself use that?

_To save Dorian, to save…_

“She’s too focused on the mark, it won’t flare down.” Dorian tried to explain to Alistair who was clutching the Inquisitor protectively.

“What do we need to do?” Alistair felt himself surge full of Templar power, thinking maybe he could cleanse the magic and stop it but Dorian’s eyebrows raised high on his forehead and he quickly stepped away.

“Whoa, slow down.” Iron Bull’s large hand grabbed Alistair on the shoulder to stop him. “Your little show of skill is what got us here in the first place.”

“Yes, next time you decide to gulp down lyrium to boost yourself, let a mage know!” Dorian quipped, annoyed. Alistair blushed, embarrassed. This was his fault.

“I _am_ sorry.” He felt breathless. Alistair gently stood back up with Bull helping him keep Octavia on her feet. “Usually the Warden Mages stay away from the warriors, to avoid friendly fire. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Well, we’re all learning each other’s fighting patterns, we’ll adjust. Now.” Dorian looked at their inquisitor and frowned. “We have to work quickly, the mark is getting brighter and there’s new _cracks_ , if I dare call them that.” He hummed, thinking.

“This may be a little unconventional but Alistair, you will have to distract her while I coax the mark back into her hand.” Dorian was trying to stay calm but they were up to their knees in water and demon entrails with their leader down for the count. Octavia’s hand was pulsating with a weird green that worried him.

The rift was closed at least, but at what cost?

Alistair could feel the pull of the veil as the mage prepared his spell and Octavia’s whimper twisted at him deep down in his gut. Dorian grabbed her hand, letting out a tsking sound as though he were chastising her.

“Solas should really be doing this but _he_ is in Skyhold” Dorian complained and Octavia merely grinned, sort of – it faltered and pulled in all the wrong places and her skin was far too pale for Dorian’s liking. What little knowledge the Tevinter mage had managed to pry from the elf might be enough to keep the mark together until they returned home.

Octavia was clutching her hand, curled into Alistair and her eyes were glossed over. Her lips pulled back in a hiss as she tried to keep the pain under control. Alistair fidgeted as he watched her carefully and his mind was racing, the feeling of urgency almost overwhelming him.

 _Distract her?_ How was he supposed to do that? They were in a _cave_ surrounded by the undead and lingering spirits that had breached the veil. He couldn’t exactly crack a joke or tell her more stories of the Wardens.

Alistair squeezed her closer to him, sweat dripped down his temple and he stared at her. He felt the panic again, under his skin, twisting like poison.

He had an idea. It wasn’t how he _wanted_ it to go but things were a bit desperate. He’d… have to apologise. _A lot_. Perhaps even offer some part of him to be maimed. _Later_. They were strangers and this was a bit forward, even though he had thought of nothing else in the last twelve hours or so. And he _really_ wanted to.

He took off his gloves, pulled her from his chest and grabbed her face gently with one hand. His thumb moved across her lower lip to relax it and Octavia’s gaze focused on his.

“Look at me, Octavia.” He requested, no - he _demanded_ her attention- and she squinted at him, her eyes were glowing oddly in the darkness of the cave. He could see the soft grey behind the shimmer of green – the mark _had_ changed the colour, she hadn’t been kidding.

“A-Alistair?” Her voice shook; he could hear the panic, the fear – almost too subtle for anyone else to catch unless they were looking for it. His gaze softened, he tried to smile with confidence but he felt shaky, nervous – worried for her.

“Hey,” he murmured and leaned forward, his nose rubbed against her own and she gripped his forearm with her free hand. She was squeezing him hard and his heart was beating fast under his ribs. There was just one way he could think of that he knew would distract her enough to let the mark dissipate, hopefully.

Maybe.

 _Maker_ he hoped she wasn’t going to knock him down on his arse.

“Hey.” She whispered back, voice still trembling and she gave him a small smile as she leaned her cheek into his hand before he slipped it into her hair, holding the back of her head while he gradually moved in closer, hovering his mouth over hers.

“I’m supposed to distract you, if I may?” He quirked a brow, lip curling into a teasing grin that made her chuckle despite the sombre excitement around them. He gazed at her – he didn’t want to see the green that flooded the both of them with the unnatural light coming from her hand but it couldn’t be helped. “Remember the… _thing_ at the boulder? Where I had trouble remembering something, earlier today? I think it’s coming back to me, if that’s alright?” He asked, making sure.

“I-I remember.” She nodded, quickly, licking her lips. Her hand flared again and she whimpered; tears gathered at the edge of her eyes. She squeezed his arm for support, to handle the ache that fired throughout her body. “D-distract a-away.” _Please_ , she urged, and he could see the unspoken request. Her eyes focused on his lips and he quickly obliged her.

He _kissed_ her, tenderly – softly and he felt her relax almost instantly.

His fingers tangled themselves into her loose bun, bringing her closer to him – her hand slipped away from his forearm to his hip, slid to his lower back and she hooked her fingers into his leather belt, the one that held his sword to his side.

His lips were warm, pliable against her cold ones and he could feel her shake under him – was it from the cold of her frost elixir? He couldn’t tell. He swallowed, his eyes burned and his heart was on the edge of his throat with worry. He swept his tongue across her lips and she opened her mouth obediently, tentatively, giving him permission to further the embrace and he tasted her slowly, the tip of his tongue caressing hers in a shy meeting of the two.

“Well,” Dorian looked away, almost embarrassed, “that’s one way to do it.”

Octavia laughed, quietly – nervous and broke the kiss far too soon. Alistair pressed his forehead against hers and closed his eyes, his jaw flexing in thought as his thumb made idle circles at the nape of her neck. Dorian managed to rear the mark, albeit temporarily.

“Done, for now – let’s get out of here.”

* * *

Bull carried her out of the caves and before they met with the Commanding Spirit in the house not too far from the cave, Octavia demanded to be put down, so she could meet with them. Alistair had to admire her – she stood straight and strong, walking towards the spirit and her voice didn’t even waver. Not once.

She was the same, and not. He could see Elissa in her strength but at the same time, Octavia eclipsed Elissa in so many ways he felt a bit overwhelmed.

Should he take this further? Could he take another adventure with a woman who would most likely die at the end of it? Could he take the loss, again?

Was he ready?

Did she want to take it even further? A kiss here and there didn’t mean much – he’d slept with other wardens over the years and nothing had come of it besides an awkward meeting the next morning in the halls of Weisshaupt.

Was this just _another_ fleeting meeting? One of those where he was intrigued, curious about the woman and she with him? Would they spend themselves with a quick tumble in the sheets and call it a day?

That idea bothered him.

He didn’t _want_ that. He wanted something… something like what he shared with Elissa.

A partnership, a _want_ from both, a _love_ that was tangible with just a gaze, an emotion that made him want to pick roses for her and say sappy ridiculous things. He wanted a light in the darkness he’d suffered for too long. The Warden shook his head; he was being idealistic and unrealistic. Ten years of loneliness was romanticising a fleeting interest from a powerful woman.

“Can I ride back to the Keep, with you?”

Octavia’s voice pulled him from his thoughts; he stared down at her from his saddle and raised a brow, surprised.

“Of course, if you wish.” He offered his hand; she took it and pulled herself up onto his lap, curling into him as he waited for her to settle. Once she stopped moving, Alistair pressed his heels into the horse’s sides to spur it on.

The rest of the team were already far ahead of them with her mount in tow and Alistair didn’t rush to catch up. The night was quiet now that the undead were at rest and the rift no longer illuminated the horizon. They spent a few moments in silence, the sounds of life distracting them but it didn’t last long.

“Thank you,” Octavia mumbled, sleepily.

“For what?” Alistair leaned his chin on top of her head and she sighed.

“The… _distraction_.”

“Ah, well,” he cleared his throat, a bit embarrassed. “Next time, I _won’t_ have all the demon guts and undead flesh hanging all over my face. I should be able to knock. Your. Socks. Off.”

“Such confidence and a next time?” she teased and Alistair chuckled.

“If uh, if you wish that is. I mean – I… I must _apologise_ , for uh, well that is...” He snapped his mouth shut, teeth clinking together in the process. “Maker’s breath, I’m terrible at this.” He grumbled and Octavia laughed quietly.

“You truly are.”

He pulled back slightly, looking down at her and her green eyes shimmered in the moonlight, and they were crinkled with laughter.

They were… _beautiful_. A quiet emerald, the grey was a silver lining that accented them. It stirred a different emotion in him and he wanted to _kiss_ her again. It would be perfect, under the stars – heavy with atmosphere.

He didn’t.

The horse walked through the Keep’s entrance and once at the stable she disembarked with the aid of the stable boy and Alistair slid off his mount before giving the reins. He offered his arm which she gladly took and he walked her to her quarters.

“You know,” Octavia started, the door to her quarters approached with each step. She was exhausted. “We’re going to have to talk about this, sometime.”

“Speak about what?”

“Whatever… this is, between us.”

“Is there… a thing? That is. I mean…” He frowned; there was no real way to be delicate about it. He hummed and Octavia nodded, agreeing with the sentiment.

“I think,” she put her hand on her door, pushed it open and invited him in. “I _think_ …” She walked to her bed and sat down, watching him close the door behind him.

“You think?” he grinned, walked towards her and knelt down at her feet, offering to take off her boots and she allowed it. His fingers were warm against her sore muscles and she held in the sigh of pleasure at his touch.

Alistair glanced at her, nervous. He took the other boot off and stood up, rubbing his hands together. He felt as though some sort of decision was being made on his behalf.

“How about, we take one day at a time, get to know each other? Danger has tendency to warp our perception of want and heighten everything.” He offered, maybe taking a little control back on his uncertainty.

Octavia smiled, almost relieved. “Wise words. Okay, one day at a time then, Ser Warden.”

He leaned forward, Octavia raised her chin, her gaze on his lips and _Maker_ he wanted to kiss her again – the way she parted her lips expectantly made him think she wanted to as well but he didn’t want to press his luck. He reached for her hand, taking off the leather glove – he could feel his cheeks warm.

“Good night, Octavia.”

He kissed her knuckles, one at a time, his tongue tasting her skin with each touch of his lips. Octavia blushed, smiling at him.

“Good night, Alistair.”

He took his leave with a smirk, closed her door behind him and sought the tavern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyyy! They mashed lips together!


	6. To Skyhold - Part 6: Warden in Hot Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Learning about one another was always the hard part. Attraction was easy, shallow even – but learning… well, it was something that could make or break a person, after it was all said and done.
> 
> Art by picchar and therealmcgee inside, art slightly nsfw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have integrated two drabbles from "Find the Grey Warden Side Stories" that I had planned to use here. Edited of course to fit the story that is currently unfolding. Thanks anon-omis for the beta.

Alistair was humming to himself when he pushed the door of the tavern open. He was _exhausted_ and he should have really been going to greet Griffons and collapse into his bed after the battles he had fought but his mind was swirling with thoughts of _Octavia_.

“ _What_ are you doing?” Hawke’s voice cut through the tavern. Alistair stumbled in his step, his humming coming to an abrupt end after he stepped through the entrance. He raised a brow, curious, when he faced her – she was sitting by herself near the door. Somehow, it gave him the impression she had been waiting for him.

“Pardon?” Alistair rubbed the back of his neck. He had an _inkling_ of an idea what she was on about but he’d rather feign ignorance if he could avoid a serious conversation – his mind was focused on a cool flask of ale after the day’s troubles and pleasures.

Hawke put down her drink, her chin pressing against her hand as she leaned forward, dark eyes narrowing at him. “Don’t play dumb. I heard from the qunari that you and Octavia were exchanging _lip service_ in the middle of a battle, of all things.” Hawke stared at him, her solemn expression worrying him. “So, I ask again. _What_ are you doing?”

“The _Inquisitor,_ hopefully.” He grinned playfully, trying to lighten the mood but Hawke didn’t bite. She merely frowned as she took a sip from her flask, grimacing. Alistair sighed, realising his joke was in bad taste. “I don’t know.” He admitted to her and Hawke shook her head, sighing as well.

“Where did this even come from? You’ve been solely focused on Corypheus and the Grey Warden’s calling for months, barely stopping to sleep – let alone taking the time to deal with matters of the _flesh_.”

Alistair frowned. “Just because I’ve been focused doesn’t mean I _ignore_ my personal interests.”

Hawke snorted. “That’s what your hand is for.” Alistair glared at her but she carried on, ignoring his objection. “Your missions are going to take you to very different places.” She pointed out, sounding almost disappointed in him. Alistair scratched his chin in thought. “Can you afford to dally with the Inquisitor? How serious is this?” Her questions were beginning to irritate him, he hadn’t really considered it – the day had been an emotional _archdemon_.

He _knew_ that they would go their separate ways and most likely never see each other again after this mission. There was no _choice_ in that. He had to return to the Wardens and she was the leader of the Inquisition. She could very well die in the next mission, as could he. The thought sobered him from his previous giddiness and all romantic thoughts of Octavia melted away.

“You’re starting to sound like Wynne.” He quipped, narrowing his eyes. He thought of the old woman that hounded him and Elissa for weeks while their budding relationship shook unsteadily under their feet. She had almost managed to break them up before the matriarch realised that amongst the chaos of war, they needed some semblance of _normalcy_.

“Who?” Hawke blinked, confused.

“ _Nevermind_.” Alistair sighed, frustrated as he scratched his scalp, thoughts swirling. “I don’t know where this is going. I just know there’s something _about_ her that makes me … _crazy_ , in a good way, and I don’t want to end it.”

“That’s a dangerous want, Alistair.” She warned, her eyes focused elsewhere in the commotion of the tavern as she brought her drink to her lips. Alistair looked down, gaze landing on his gloved hands. The blue and grey of his Warden gear glinted dully in the fire light and reminded him of his oaths, reminded him of Elissa.

They all had priorities, _responsibilities_.

“Maybe it is but Wardens have very little time left on Thedas once they join the order. Sometimes, Hawke, you need to _live_ and damn the consequences.” He told her, bitterly. The mage rolled her eyes.

Alistair wondered briefly if his feelings were just a fantasy, if Octavia really wanted a Warden that had already lived nearly half the time he was allowed have.

Hawke pushed her flask toward him, a silent apology even if the ale was warm and flat. He accepted it, taking a gulp as they kept each other company in silence for the rest of the evening.

Despite the odd confrontation with Hawke, packing up and leaving the Keep had gone off without a hitch and Griffons seemed excited at travelling again, much to Alistair’s pleasure. Days were merging as time passed, the trek to Skyhold a bit more adventurous than imagined.

Alistair shifted in the saddle of his mount, the muscles of his arse cramping with every dip and stumble the horse made on the rocky road of the mountain but he didn’t mind – considering his view. Octavia was ahead of him and he took his time taking her in. She had let her hair loose to dry after the morning dip in the river before they packed up camp. The dark curls flowed down her back and he imagined his fingers wrapping the curls around them. He watched her as she stretched and looked over her shoulder, smiling at him as he winked at her, grinning.

Amidst the chaos, Alistair and Octavia hadn’t had time to really _talk_ , let alone spend any time together between the interruptions were almost excessive – a bandit attack here and there, a village fire to quench from rebel mages who chased out Templars from it but set fire to the fields in the process. Of course Octavia had to stop and listen to the people, their lists of complaints endless. People were always asking the Inquisitor to fetch things for them; it drove him crazy.

And then there was that pesky _awkward shyness_ that somehow managed to sneak up on him at night around the camp fire. The second they had a moment together he couldn’t string two words together, let alone properly _romance_ Octavia. She didn’t seem to mind though – maybe he was just trying to convince himself otherwise.

Just thinking about kissing her again, under calmer circumstances, had him in knots – the good kind of knots but his nerves were making him feel like he was twenty again and it was _frustrating_. It didn’t help that Hawke’s words, from a few nights ago, were digging into him and doubt had steadily crept up and shaken him once more. His thoughts wandered back to their conversation, a few hours after he had left Octavia’s chambers.

He blinked the memory away, Hawke had made herself scarce since then and they hadn’t spoken of it again. Not like he wanted to broach the subject. He wasn’t a teenager anymore and he certainly didn’t need _anyone’s_ approval to _pursue_ the Inquisitor… Alistair cursed under his breath, his sense of duty was damnable and the guilt he felt for _his feelings towards_ Octavia was unfounded.

The only thing that could really ruin anything was the uncertainty of a future he had already planned once before and it was eating at him, making him itchy in the strangest sense of the word.

Griffons’s bark pulled him out of his thoughts and he smirked at the old mabari that wagged its tail at him before taking off further ahead to bark at more of the Inquisitor’s companions. Despite getting on with age, the dog could still keep up with the horses for a few hours at a time. Elissa would certainly be proud of what her dog had managed to accomplish over the last ten years.

“What are you thinking about?”

Alistair jumped, startled at the sudden closeness of the Inquisitor. Octavia blinked in surprise and she started to laugh at him, her warm hiccups of laughter making him grin.

“Sorry, I didn’t think you were that deep into thought.” Her voice was full of _life_ , and Alistair felt his chest squeeze, swell with emotion. He _liked_ her, there was no denying that. His cheeks warmed against the cooling air of the mountain.

“Surprising, isn’t it?” He wiggled his brows at her and she snorted with disagreement.

“Not really, you’re always thinking about something.” Octavia smiled, the corner of her lip curling up and all he wanted to do was kiss the corner of her mouth. He looked away, thoughts fluttering into dangerous territory.

“I was thinking about the mayor of fair Crestwood, if you must know.” His horse huffed and Alistair winced, the side step sending an unwelcome ache on his backside.

“What about him?”

Alistair could almost hear her sighing. He couldn’t blame her; they were shocked to find the village abandoned by its leader the next morning – the guilt, or maybe even fear of facing the consequences of his crimes were too much for the old man. Octavia had set up a search for the Mayor which had Bull almost grunting with pleasure. From what he understood from the mercenary’s explanation was that Octavia in the midst of judgement was quite a sight to see. He was a little excited to witness it to be perfectly honest. The thought of Octavia sitting on that big chair, her fingers pressed against her lips in thought, legs slightly apart…

He cleared his throat.

“How does the judgment work, exactly?” He glanced at her, long enough to see her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Bull explained a little to me but he seemed focused on other things.” He heard her snort, holding back laughter.

“I bet. He gets a little bit into it.” If there was ever a time Octavia could be accused of an understatement, that would be it. “Well,” Octavia fidgeted in her saddle and if he didn’t know better he would say she seemed a bit flustered. “Usually I sit on this big chair, and you could call it a _throne_ -“

“A throne?” Alistair let out a snort of laughter, which had Octavia smirking. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I am aware that it’s a bit…” she trailed off searching for the right word.

“Obnoxious?” he provided to her dismay and before she could counter his assumption he let his tone drop almost to a whisper, sending a shiver up her spine. “Should I be calling you _Your Worship_?” He grinned at her, and she blinked, thinking.

“Only if you _plan_ on worshipping me. You may use it then.” She murmured, looking away. He almost missed her blush. He didn’t get her meaning at first, but when he thought over her words, he felt his ears warm.

“Oh. _Oh_.” His ears were definitely red, considering the way Octavia smirked at him, obviously amused at his reaction. A few moments passed between them while Alistair took the time to recollect his thoughts. He felt a bit tongue tied.

“So, you sit on the _throne_ , and then what happens?” He glanced at her quickly; the horses’ steps filled the silence between them.

“Um, well – I listen to the evidence and the subject’s side of the story or confession and decide on what their proper punishment, or lack thereof, should be.”

“You’re the sole person to decide this?”

“For the final decision, yes.” Octavia gripped the reins of her mount. She had a feeling she knew where this conversation was going and it was a direction she was familiar with, considering she had often asked herself the same thing. “I have my advisers to make sure I don’t make it personal.” She assured him, but it didn’t seem to work, he was still frowning.

“Ah, so it’s not a _complete_ dictatorship.” Alistair shook his head; he disagreed with the due process but his comment was only meant in jest – which was sorely missed by the Inquisitor.

Octavia frowned, biting her lower lip. “I’m not doing anything different than the Queen of Ferelden, I still abide to the laws set by this country – I make a point of it.”

“True as that may be the fact remains that the Queen is still held responsible by the _people_ of Ferelden. She has years of training in politics. The training required to handle such precarious situations.” He countered and she knew he had a point. She was put into her position without a visible vote but she had worked for it – proven her mettle. “A Landsmeet could easily dethrone her from her position. You, on the other hand, they could not.”

“That’s not true; I can easily be ousted from it as I was given it.” Octavia nearly snapped out the words at him. “Do you not trust me?” She asked, point blank and Alistair swallowed, kicking himself mentally before answering.

“That’s _not_... That’s not what I—“

“I _am_ trained in such political non-sense; I have more than enough education to make these decisions.” Octavia narrowed her eyes at him, her fingers gripping the reins harder while she tried to control her temper but his words were plucking at the last few doubts she had about her position as the Inquisitor. “I may not look it but my father, Bann Trevelyan, made sure all his children were trained to take over the Bannorn in case anything happened to everyone else.”

“Bannorn? You’re a Noble?”

“Yes, is that hard to believe?” She quipped at him, irritation getting harder to keep under wraps. Alistair raised a brow, surprised.

“No, not at all.” He chuckled at her tone; he wasn’t sure why she was getting so worked up. “Elissa was a spitfire noble too. You two are surprisingly similar, you both have very striking and remarkable poise in all you do – even in battle.”

Octavia’s teeth snapped together, audibly. The tension between them was almost tangible, or so she _thought_ – Alistair was humming a tune to himself.

 _Humming_!

“I’d like to know more about Elissa.” She asked against her better judgement. Her oddly placed curiosity caught him off-guard, again. He raised a brow, glancing at Octavia as their horses steadily marched up the rocky road. Crestwood had been an atrocious _Humid Hell Hole_ and now it was getting cooler by the day, which was welcomed, up to a point.

He looked away, her question still ringing in his ears and he shivered. The cold was sneaking in between the cracks of his armour and he’d need to add a few layers tonight if he wanted to keep sickness at bay.

“Isn’t that bad manners?” He watched the road ahead; Griffons was happily trailing behind Dorian and Bull, barking at the Qunari who seemed to enjoy the conversation with the animal.

“What do you mean?” The Inquisitor moved in closer, the conversation a bit more private than before. Alistair chuckled.

“I was under the distinct impression that asking, or even speaking about old lovers, was a _no_ -no in a new, um, relationship.” He turned his attention to her, and she wiggled her nose, shrugging at him, her gaze oddly flat.

“I wasn’t asking what her bedroom mannerisms were like, Alistair, I just wanted to know more _about_ her.” She visibly bristled, irritated. Alistair’s brows shot up, her sudden sour mood had been a little unexpected. He kept his gaze on her, while she focused on other things besides him.

“Uh, well… I wasn’t implying you were _asking_ about that… _particular_ … aspect of my relationship.” He started, unsure what to say. He felt flustered, annoyed with Octavia’s preemptive conclusion and accusations. He straightened in his saddle, taking a deep breath as he tried to picture Elissa but it kept slipping from him, morphing into Octavia. He frowned, startled at the revelation that he was struggling to recall what she even _looked_ like.

“Well, she was… from Highever, the youngest one of Bryce Cousland’s ch-”

“ _I know all that_.” She cut him off before he could start. Alistair snapped his mouth shut, annoyed with that little quirk of hers and a ripple of irritation flowed between them again. He searched her face to see what she was thinking but she wouldn’t look at him. Her fingers were tightly wound in the reins and her posture was stiff with an emotion he couldn’t quite read from her. It was the first time since meeting her that he couldn’t read her.

“Alright.” He breathed in the cool air, her scent eluding him in the wind. He quickly licked his dry lips and tried to sound as neutral as possible. “I suggest you _ask_ your questions instead of letting me stab _blindly_ in the dark at what you want to know.”

It didn’t work.

He couldn’t have seemed more irritated if he tried. Octavia glanced his way and he saw a glimpse of regret there, in her eyes, but he wasn’t sure – it was gone as soon as he saw it.

“Never mind, I-I don’t know why I… _why_ I asked.” She mumbled, nerves prickling her skin. She dug her heels into the mount’s underbelly and pulled ahead of him, leaving the Warden behind.

“Octavia?” He called after her once, twice even but she didn’t look back and Alistair sighed, feeling a cold sense of dread sweep across him.

\+ + +

She felt overwhelmed. Octavia sighed, her mind wandering over useless things that she realized didn’t matter the more she thought about it. Her sudden envy of Elissa had come and gone and she felt a little silly, if not guilty of her reaction.

He was still deeply attached to her, _the Hero_ , and she couldn’t blame him. The Blight had nearly wiped them off the face of Thedas and the entirety of the world had a lot to be grateful for – and Alistair. _Especially_ , Alistair.

From what she had heard from rumour all those years ago, Elissa had saved not only from his own self-destruction but given him a chance at a life he never would have thought possible. The way he spoke of Elissa, she was _more_ than just a Hero, _more_ than just a lover.

Maybe that’s what bothered her the most; the way his eyes crinkled when he thought of Elissa, the way his lips curled into a smile as though he’d stolen a kiss from a memory. The warmth of Elissa’s memory made her envious. She wanted to be that for him, too.

Octavia rubbed the back of her neck, seeking relief. The ache making its way from her lower back to her head had been gradual and she could tell it was nearly time to stop. They were still two days away from Skyhold and pushing the mounts any harder would have them going lame, she was sure of it.

“Bull,” she called out, only loud enough for him to hear – the Qunari turned slightly in her direction to show he was listening – his eye still on the horizon. They could see the shape of Skyhold in the distance and a pang of homesickness took her by surprise.

“Yeah, Boss?”

“Let’s set up for the night at the next camp – I don’t want to tire the mounts. The road is rough and bumpy from here on out.”

Bull grunted in agreement, and Octavia spent the next hour casually glancing over her shoulder to try and see if Alistair was around.

He _wasn’t_ , which unsettled her.

He’d made himself scarce – blending in with the rest of the Inquisition further behind her little party. She felt guilty but not _because_ of her initial reaction, per say. She needed to talk to him, explain things… might even succeed if she wasn’t tongue tied again. Something about the man made her question herself.

Twilight was settled on the horizon when camp finally came into view and she sighed at the sight of it – the tension in her back was at its peak. Octavia hopped off her mount just in time to hear a horse pull up behind her. She looked over her shoulder and pressed her lips together.

“Um,” Alistair was standing next to his mount, reins in hand – Griffons sat next to him, his tail wagging slightly, and tongue hanging out comically. She focused her attention back to her mount, her hands busy with patting the animal down from sweat.

“You know, I hear the best way to get rid of knots is a good spar.”

“Only the most tenacious pains in the ass,” Octavia stared at him and he chuckled nervously, “Or so I hear.”

“Ah, got me there.” He twisted the reins in his hands and Octavia glanced at them. She could tell something weighted heavy on his mind.

“Okay,” she guided her mount to her tent, Alistair with his own in tow and he tied it next to hers – “Let me change first,” Octavia disappeared into her tent and after a few moments, returned with just light gear equipped and her daggers.

“No potions?” He jested and despite the tension that was lingering between them she laughed softly, making him feel a bit more encouraged.

“Well, you could lose your eyebrows if I bring out the elixirs, Alistair.”

“I’m rather fond of my eyebrows,” he quipped, rubbing at them as he wondered what he would look like without them. Then, he _remembered_ that time when Morrigan “accidentally” shot fireballs at him and _they_ did burn off – Elissa had... He frowned, trying to push the memory away. He had to focus on Octavia.

“As am I.” The Inquisitor gave him a small smile. He almost missed it and he let go of a breath he’d been holding for a long time.

He dropped his heavier gear next to her tent and pulled out his sword and shield, following Octavia as she beckoned for him to follow. He pulled at his shirt, letting the cool air filter through.

“Ready?” Her voice cut through the air of their training space. Alistair nodded, staring through the wings of the griffons on his shield as he admired her stance – she looked fierce, confident, as she twirled her daggers and positioned herself.

“Ready.” He tucked himself behind the shield and blinked – the light of the sun was just over the mountains and it blocked his view a bit, all he could see was her silhouette. He cleared his throat, the camp fire smoke burned but it blew off to the side and they were left standing across from each other.

There were things he _wanted_ to tell her, but he needed Octavia to release the tension they had built between them over the last few hours. He knew he was to blame for some of her anger – he admonished her for asking her about Elissa and he went ahead and compared them. He was a _fool_.

Octavia narrowed her eyes, knives poised in her favoured attack stance and, despite the distance between them, she noticed how Alistair’s face was framed with the griffon wings and it momentarily distracted her – she cursed under her breath and felt a blush rise to her cheeks. She was well aware that he still thought she was angry with him.

[Art by therealmcgee](http://therealmcgee.tumblr.com/post/116212208424/his-voice-cuts-through-the-air-the-camp-fire)

She awaited his signal, the way his sword twitched into action. The loud clip of the blade against the metal of his Warden shield taunted her, _provoked_ her attention and she flew into action. Her toes barely touched the ground, her blades danced in the air as she dipped and dived, stepping around his attacks. Although it had only been a week, their battles together had taught each other much about the other.

Octavia was beginning to recognize his signs, the hint of his actions just by the way his arm twisted. She noticed how the muscle became taunt under the light cotton undershirt. It lifted slightly, just enough for her to see his skin and the lean planes of his body; she barely realized that she was focused on all the wrong things.

Their surroundings grew darker – the camp fire’s glow was all she could use to track him in the darkness of the camp. She could still see his weapons glint with the little light they had. Her eyes were still sharp enough to see the sweat beading at his brow, the way the water dripped down and slid against the sharp edge of his nose.

She leaned forward, close enough to hear him breathe when her knife slid between them and danced around him easily. She couldn’t help her admiration when his nostrils flared out as he focused on her movements.

He tried to follow her but she kept disappearing. He grunted and she knew he’d decided to change strategies. She could feel the air change when he raised his sword in the air and pulled at his powers to strike at her - she could taste the energy ripple in the air, see the way his lips pulled back against his teeth in his cry.

She loved the way the top lip curved and dipped in the center, the way it kissed the lower lip - she marveled at the strong curve of it, the way it stretched when he spoke, the way it moved- heavy, light, busy with his history. She wondered what weighed them down, what they would taste like right then and there. Her first kiss with him had been robbed of those sensations, the taste of his mouth.

Octavia wanted to pry her name from between his lips with her own, to wrap her tongue around his words and swallow each syllable. She twirled. Sword and knife met with a sharp clang that vibrated through her arm, the other knife found his side and sliced the linen shirt mercilessly, igniting Alistair into fiercer attacks.

She kicked his side, pushing him out of his Templar stance and stunning him, the Holy Smite cut off from its release and he grunted again, the sound sent a shiver up her spine with need and she started to think about all of the wrong possible things in the middle of a fight.

“That hasn’t happened in a long time,” he wheezed, grinning at her with pride and she smiled, watching the way he ducked his head out of the way. Her gaze lingered on the strong line of his jaw as it flexed under the strain of his movements - the muscle calling for her and she sighed, content.

_Distracted._

Alistair took advantage, noticing that she was no longer watching his feet and he _attacked_. His feet found hers and out of habit he stomped down, bringing her dance to a sudden stop. He leaned back, bringing his shield up and his movement was fluid, confident – automatic.

She yelped in surprise when she felt his feet tangle with hers and the metal of his shield struck her hard on the shoulder, knocking her off her feet in one swift motion. She spilled to the ground, daggers knocked from her hands – Alistair realised a little too late what he’d done and blinked, his actions dawning on him.

“Maker!” Alistair yelled, breathless – worry etched across his brow. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t even think – I just … Are you alright?”

Octavia groaned, disappointed.

“Not really,” she rolled over onto her belly, wondering if she could press her face into the dirt and suffer the embarrassment quietly. She could sense his feet close to her, his shield dropped to the ground, followed by his sword. He reached out and touched her arm, to roll her over onto her back and she couldn’t help but notice how his warmth against her sensitive skin made her tingle.

Maybe she _did_ use her Fire Elixir by accident; his touch shouldn’t have left her with such a delightful ache and warmth.

“Let me see,” he murmured, eyes focused on her arm. His fingers traveled the length of it and massaged the muscle to relax it against the pain he caused. “I’m very sorry, I just… got too focused and you’re very quick-“

“That’s a pretty neat shield trick,” Octavia interrupted him _again_ and her gaze was transfixed on his mouth, the curl of his lips drawing her own smile into life.

“Well, I wouldn’t be a very good warrior if I couldn’t stop a rogue in its tracks. They’re tricky little bast- uh, they’re very _agile_.”

Octavia’s laughter made him look up, surprised to hear it.

“Good recovery.” She praised him, and Alistair felt the tip of his ears warm at the words. His fingers pressed down on a sore spot that made her hiss and she ground her teeth together – his closeness made her head spin. Alistair noticed the way her breath changed and he thought it was from the pain but she was trying to keep her words on lock down, trying to keep the letters wedged between her teeth.

“I’m fine,” she sighed, trying to convince him otherwise but he shook his head no.

“I hit you pretty hard.”

“I’m fine, I wouldn’t be a very good rogue if I couldn’t recover from a warrior’s strike.” She reiterated, using his own words and this time he laughed. She watched his hands and thought she could feel him tremble, just a bit.

“I’m _sure_ you are quite able, but still, humour me-” he smiled and she gazed at his mouth again. Her thoughts were confused. What was she doing, here – pining for a Warden who loves a ghost?

She twitched slightly with the sparks of ache while he worked out the knots worked out the knots and the pain subsided – gradually.

 _She was tired_ of feeling like this.

She wanted to tell him, she wanted to _forget_ him. She wanted to know everything there was to know so she had a fighting chance against a memory.

It was time for her to realise that she was competing against a ghost. A _Hero_ at that; and she was not sure how to break free from the weight of Elissa’s shadow so that Alistair could see _her_. Not _just_ her, of course, but accept the possibility that he could like, or even _love_ , again.

 _Wishful thinking_ , she admonished herself.

She swallowed when their eyes met and he didn’t look away, his gaze steady. She wasn’t imagining things, he really was trembling and she wasn’t sure what it meant.

Alistair saw it, for just a moment – the flash of sadness in her eyes. He regretted it – his words, his stupidity and his unwillingness to stop speaking about Elissa.

“Um, you’re…” He takes her hand in his, his eyes searching her face for _something_ , he’s not sure what. “You’re okay.”

“I told you so,” Octavia smirked, all trace of her sadness gone and Alistair frowned.

“Yes, you did.” He squeezed her hand and stood up, helping her to her feet, dusting the dirt from her back and shoulders. “There’s a river here, right? Not far?”

“Yes, just down the path, over a ridge.” She pointed south of the camp and he nodded, leaving her as he grabbed his gear and disappeared towards the water.

\+ + +

It’d been an hour or so since they parted.

The moon was heavy in the sky and stars littered the darkness. Skyhold was like a twinkling beacon in the distance where they camped and she thought about her advisers; Cullen in particular.

Octavia stirred the embers of the fire from where she sat, on a log near the camp pit and sighed - their day had been long and hard, far more emotional than she liked. She poked the embers again, the smoke billowed towards her and she coughed, blinking against the water in her eyes as she looked away.

When she opened her eyes she caught a glimpse of something she wasn’t expecting.

Alistair was walking up the path from the river, his naked skin glistened under the moonlight - he was still wet and wore absolutely _nothing_ besides a well-placed shirt over his nether regions while he carried his load of clothing with him.

She looked away, _sort of_ , poking at the fire again.

She glanced sideways, catching him bend over to enter his tent - she bit her lower lip when the muscular curve of his arse said hello before disappearing behind the flap.

She sighed, dropping the stick to the ground before pulling her knees up to her chin and resting it on them, wrapping her arms around her legs. She didn’t notice him come back out, too entranced by the flames licking the dead wood.

She heard him clear his throat and looked up towards his tent again, expecting him to be fully dressed but he wasn’t. Her gaze landed on the wide expanse of his chest, soft curls of hair barely noticeable in the darkness but she could still see them, thanks to the orange glow of the fire. Her mouth felt dry, nerves prickling across her skin – she wanted to touch him.

“Octavia,” Alistair’s voice brought her gaze to his, she saw his lips pull back into that smirk she'd discovered that made her toes curl with want; maybe he _knew_ what it did to her… he had been throwing it her way quite a bit these last few days.

“Yes?” she breathed out the words, her cheeks warming when he pulled his undershirt over his head and passed his fingers through his wet hair. _Maker_ , the things he made her feel.

“My eyes are up here.” His index pointed up from his chest and he winked at her, smiling - Octavia buried her face in her arms, groaning.

“You’re awful flirty for someone who was in big trouble earlier today.” She mumbled through her arms and Alistair laughed, sitting next to her.

“Yes, I thought I’d _test_ the waters a bit and see if we could talk about _that_ …” She heard him sigh, she looked up from where she had hidden her face and felt a twinge of guilt.

“I’m sorry –“ They both said at the same and Octavia laughed while Alistair looked confused.

“What are _you_ sorry about?” He asked, concerned while Octavia raised a brow in confusion.

“Uh, well. I overreacted, to be honest. I was irritable for various reasons and I got… envious.”

“Envious?” The warden frowned, thinking about his words. “How can you be envious of the dead?” he chuckled, amused. “They have no hold on the mortal world.”

“True, but mortals, they hold onto them – keep them alive and how does one compare to a ghost.” She murmured while her gaze locked onto the fire. There was a pregnant pause between them; Octavia was unwilling to look at him when he turned to look at the fire as well.

“Good point.” Alistair leaned forward, she could see him at the edge of her vision –his expression was serious and she felt a knot in her throat that she had trouble swallowing.

“I… I didn’t mean-“

“It’s a fair point though.” He cut her off gently, and she pressed her lips together, nervous. “What I’m about to say… well, I mean – Here we are, or I should say, here _I_ am, trying to understand what or _where_ we stand in each other’s lives. I still have to figure out where to put my past _and_ Elissa.” Octavia looked at him, her expression unreadable but her throat was tight with emotion.

“I am a Grey Warden, I am a bastard prince – I _was_ a Hero with a small claim to victory and I didn’t _want_ to claim that victory – it wasn’t my right. It was all Elissa’s but history fails to remember that sometimes.”

He rubbed his hands together, the cold of the evening finally getting to him. He hated the feeling that swelled inside of him; like he was about to swallow his foot. “Maybe it’s because I’m still alive – people feel the need to thank me or to remind me of what we did all these years ago.” He sighed, waving the thought away.

“Elissa was, and still _is,_ a part of Ferelden and no matter where I go – no matter what I touch on this _blighted_ land - there are constant reminders of her.”

Octavia slipped from the log and moved closer to the fire as the wood crackled. She suddenly needed the warmth of it. She leaned her back against the log. His words struck her core, she hadn’t really thought about it that way.

“I can’t _help_ but to think of her - I loved Elissa, _deeply_ , even if we had only spent a year together.” He spoke softly, his hand came into view, reaching for hers and she took it into her own, fingers entwined. She kept very still, listening. _Aching_.

For him? For herself? It was confusing.

“She gave me purpose when I had resigned myself to the idea that I was not needed, that I had no future and that I would die in the Blight with whatever was left of the Ferelden Order after Ostagar.” He squeezed Octavia’s hand, and she squeezed it back. She held her breath at his expression – it was soft, his gaze meeting her own, begging for her to understand.

“The day she died,” he kept his eyes on Octavia, he needed to see what she was thinking. “I _stopped_ living –I was but a shadow.” Alistair cleared his throat – he could still feel the exhaustion in his bones from the fight through Denerim, he could still see Elissa staring down the Archdemon and how she flexed her fists with her final decision.

He could still remember the feeling of her mouth on his – the taste of her blood on his tongue and the bitterness of her apology that still haunted him.

“If it weren’t for my companions, even for _Griffons_ , after the Blight… I would have _gladly_ died with her.” He swallowed, the ache surfacing while he thought of those dark days – he couldn’t remember the first two years after she had passed. The depth of his personal hell had become too wide during that time and he had found no reasons to keep going.

Griffons… her war hound had _needed_ him. The dog had weathered the loss with him and Alistair couldn’t have moved on if the Mabari hadn’t been there to force him to keep taking care of _something_.

“Had the Order not _repurposed_ me into what I am today, I don’t know where I would be.” He swallowed the lump in his throat and hoped Octavia was still listening. “The anger and grief I felt for her decision nearly destroyed me. I was just beginning to think I was worthy of something and she _disappeared_.”

Octavia squeezed his hand again; he shut his eyes and took a breath to steady his voice. Speaking of his past hurt more than he imagined – he had never spoken to anyone about it, besides Griffons. He was sure he was hurting Octavia with his grief but he kept going, regardless. They needed to have this out in the open if they were to have any kind of a chance.

“Her very soul was consumed in the destruction of the Archdemon. She’s not even in the fade. Even if I had died, I wouldn’t have found her - she doesn’t exist anymore.” He felt exhausted. “I was convinced, for a very long time, that I was far too lost to be salvaged and I had no interest in devoting myself again, in such a way, to another.”

He let go of Octavia’s hand and straightened up, his gaze now focused on the fire.

“I’ve had several other relations after Elissa but they were never anything serious -- mostly just tension relief with other Wardens that were happy to oblige to our mutual needs.” It felt awkward to say that out loud, he wasn’t one to kiss and tell and he liked to keep it that way.

“Am I as such? A convenient… _tension_ release?” Octavia quipped, worried. Alistair shook his head.

“Maker, no.” He spoke the words with such confidence that she believed him. “I spent a lot of time thinking about you and what I feel. I debated, I mean- I _wondered_ what you’d want with a Warden who’d already spent one third of the time allotted to him.”

“What do you mean?”

Alistair shifted. “Ah, well – once you join the Order, Wardens usually live about thirty years, and I’ve been there ten years already, so…” He shrugged. Octavia frowned at him, not understanding.

“Do you they kill you when you retire or something?” Alistair snorted, laughing. She didn’t see the humour. “Why do you only have thirty years?”

“The way we’re initiated.” He hummed in consideration – he was unwilling to part with the details. “The joining has an expiry date, unfortunately, and telling you about the ritual would be breaking a lot of _oaths_.”

“Ah, right – Wardens and their mystical oaths. Frankly, I’m starting to wonder…” She huffed, annoyed at the lack of information.

“We _are_ a mysterious lot.” He winked at her and she rolled her eyes, still frowning. She opened her mouth but Alistair sighed, frustrated with her interruptions. “Stop distracting me from the conversation.” He gently pushed her with his knee Octavia grinned.

“I’m really bad at that.”

“Yes, you have to work on that – someday you’ll interrupt the wrong person and Thedas will be at war.” Alistair laughed when Octavia rolled her eyes at him. “As I was saying,” He eyed her, her smile fading a bit with the seriousness of the conversation returning. “You’re the first woman since Elissa passed that has completely captured my attention.”

Octavia’s brows twitched, rising in surprise at his confession.

“I am sorry for the things I said earlier today, I didn’t mean to compare you – I hurt you. I promise, I will not make that mistake again.”

Octavia shook her head, confusing Alistair.

“I wasn’t angry about that, at all. I was envious of the way you love her.” She bit her lip, thinking. “It’s been a long few days and I, uh,” she cleared her throat, embarrassed. “I may or may not have been thinking about kissing a certain warden in the privacy of my tent and then,” she glanced at him – Alistair blinked at her, a bit surprised. “Then, you started to talk about Elissa and your whole demeanour changed. You were filled with warmth and the way your lips just curl up into a smile when you speak about her…” She shrugged.

“I got envious; I wanted to be the one to bring that reaction, to make you think-” Alistair was the one to interrupt her this time. He leaned down, tapping on her shoulder to make her turn her face up towards him, she blinked.

“I didn’t know you felt that way about Blackwall.” He whispered, forcing her to lean even closer.

“What? Black-” She looked bewildered, completely caught off guard by his comment.

He kissed her. A soft, slow kiss that moved across her lips and she felt his hands touch her face, taking each side gently to keep her there. He pressed his forehead against hers, breaking the contact and took a deep breath.

“You bring me joy, in my thoughts. I haven’t felt like this in a long time - I’m nervous, I’m tongue tied and I feel like a fool whenever I see you or even talk to you.” He whispered to her and Octavia blushed.

“That sounds terrible.” She teased and Alistair nodded.

“It’s a curse.”

Octavia laughed, eyes twinkling in delight. “If you’re trying to get into my trousers, keep talking.”

The Warden chuckled, kissing her again and he murmured against her lips. “I wasn’t trying to.”

“You should, results could play in your favour if you play your cards right.” she quipped back, raising a brow. Alistair smirked.

“Should we retire to your tent then?” He purred at her, lips twisting into that grin that made her hold her breath. She barely had time to nod before he had her up on her feet and leading her towards her tent.

She squeezed his hand – tugging him to slow down. Alistair looked over his shoulder and paused. Octavia looked nervous.

“Something the matter?”

“This may sound a little strange, but, I don’t like getting caught with my pants down.” She fidgeted, her fingers entwining themselves with his. Alistair was confused at first.

“Oh.” Her implication dawned on him. “ _Oh_. Good point. That’s… happened once or twice in my day.” He flushed, pulling her into his arms for a comforting hug.

“Yes, nothing like getting attacked, only to be found without armour and your arse up in the air.” She giggled against his chest and Alistair chuckled.

“If everything is alright between us, now, may I just spend the night with you then? And, if permitted, explore a little?” He waggled his brows, grinning. Octavia smiled at him, the anticipation making her belly flip – Alistair was blushing when their gaze met. _How positively quaint_.

“Things are okay, for now - I still have a lot to think about, for sure.” She pushed herself up to her tippy toes and let her lips linger on his for a moment. “Your request is quite forward, _Ser Warden_ , asking a maiden such questions.”

“Ha.” Alistair snorted. “A maiden? I’ve seen you in battle my dear, you are grace and poise but no dainty damsel.”

“Details,” She winked, whispering at him as she pushed him through the flaps of her tent. He disappeared into the shadows of her temporary room and heard him trip. She failed to muffle her laughter when he swore.

“ _Maker’s breath_ , is that gear littering the floor?”

“I was in a hurry-“

“Did you even look where you were putting all of these?”

“No I was focused on sparring with you, so I just _stripped_ and let it fall where ever.”

“O _ho, the truth comes out -_ in a hurry to see me all sweaty?” He grinned, watching her silhouette in the darkness as she approached him. He swallowed.

“Well,” she grabbed the collar of his cotton undershirt and tugged it to bring him closer before she gently pushed him back again so he’d fall into the cot. “I discovered I have a _thing_ for your mouth and that glowing thing you do is _quite_ fantastic.”

As though on cue, Alistair gathered some of his Templar power and brought it to life, his eyes glowing slightly in the darkness. “You mean this thing? It seems pretty popu-“

“Yes, that.” Octavia interrupted him, crawling over his legs to straddle his hips – her lips crashed unto his, her nose squishing itself awkwardly against Alistair’s. He let out a sound of approval as his hands haphazardly caught her, keeping her from slipping off of him in her rush. Her hands pressed against his chest and moved up his shoulders – brushed his neck and her fingers mingled in his hair, tugging it slightly. The simple act of tugging changed something in the atmosphere between them.

Maybe it was because of the uncertainty of the last few days, the tension of their argument – the build- up of private fantasies but there was desperation in their kiss that wasn’t there earlier.

Alistair’s tongue swept across her lip, the scruff of his skin against hers made Octavia shiver and she willingly opened her mouth, tongues sweeping against each other long enough to taste. Their teeth clipped together in the midst of their kiss, which only enticed a different kind of urgency.

Octavia rolled her hips against him when Alistair nipped her bottom lip and she quietly moaned into his mouth – her fingers let go of his hair and traveled down his neck, touching the warmth of his skin. She could feel his heart beating under her fingertips and she grinned against his lips.

“What are you smirking about?” He mumbled, his hands slipping down her sides to her hips and she ground against him again, chuckling when he gasped – she could feel his erection even under all their clothing.

“Your heart is beating very fast.” She pointed out and Alistair rolled his eyes.

“Is it? What a _wonder_.” He barely had time to finish his smart remark before she hit him teasingly.

“No need for that.” She laughed and Alistair grinned.

“I’d be worried if it _wasn’t_ beating fast – considering our activity and this delightful position, speaking of which.” Alistair took the opportunity to move, flipping Octavia onto her back and she yelped in surprise when she found herself pinned under him.

He settled between her legs, rolling his hips forward and chuckled when he heard her muffled moan. He kissed her again, nipping the skin down her chin and along her jaw – he marveled at her sounds and the way her legs felt around him as she squeezed him closer, forcing him to move his hips against her sex.

His excitement pooled at the base of his back when she whispered his name, the way she spoke each syllable was heavy and thick with want. He groaned, his nostrils flaring out with a breath when she slipped her hands under his shirt and let her fingers travel the length of his spine.

“ _Maker…_ “ He hissed, her nails digging into his back and he pressed his forehead against hers, pausing to settle his heart. Octavia chuckled, the heels of her boots digging into his backside to press him even harder. She arched her back under him, pressing her clothed breasts against his chest and Alistair buried his face in the crook of her neck. His lips found her pulse point and he sucked lightly at it, he could feel her tremble under his touch.

His hand slipped down her side to her hip, past her thigh and he grasped the outside of her leg, encouraging her to move them up and she complied, her fingers travel back up through his hair as she pulled him down for another kiss.

This time it was a soft embrace. They took their time touching each other – his fingers exploring her when she grabbed his hand and put it over her chest, helping him squeeze her breast. He didn’t need to be told twice. He touched every part she guided him to, his hips rolled against her until she was panting hard and he moaned a little too loud.

He _rutted_ against Octavia and she let out a sound that delighted him. She rolled her hips to meet his pace and the friction between them increased, their breaths hard and heavy. Her fingers dug into his back, her heels into his ass – their mouths met again and again in sloppy kisses.

“Octavia I-“ He moaned, grabbing the edge of the cot for better purchase and she nodded, lips pulled back into a silent hiss as pleasure rippled through him. She was flushed with pleasure and he couldn’t hold back for much longer. He leaned his mouth down against hers and kissed her, hips rolling hard once, twice – her thighs tightened around his hips and he felt that familiar sensation tighten his loins. He squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating.

[Art by Picchar](http://picchar.tumblr.com/)

 

Griffons barked in his ear.

“Shit!” Octavia yelled out in surprise at the interruption, her breath blowing out his cheeks and they knocked their teeth together, painfully. Alistair cursed at the mabari who stared at him with a sock in his mouth.

“Griffons, get the void out of here. I don’t need my sock.” He groused at the animal who merely wagged his tail and didn’t move, only dropped the sock next to his owner.

Octavia burst out laughing, rubbing her mouth.

“It’s not funny.” He grumbled, smile already pulling at his lips.

“Yes, it is.” She laughed even harder when he kissed her again – the mood broken. She didn’t mind and he didn’t seem upset either. “Does he always bring you a sock when you’re _panting_ alone in your tent? Is that some sort of sign for him to do that?”

Alistair flushed in embarrassment, his face buried in her shoulder. Maker’s breath, that couldn’t have gone worst.

“Maybe.” He mumbled and tried to roll off of her – Octavia’s laughter was infectious, he let out a chuckle as he rolled away and she let him but she followed in for a snuggle. She laid her head on his shoulder, leg thrown across his. He shifted uncomfortably, his erection still throbbing for attention.

He ignored it.

“We should take our boots off, before calling it a night.” Octavia murmured sleepily. Alistair sighed, their romantic spell was officially put off to another night, no thanks to a helpful dog.

“How much longer until Skyhold?” He tried _not_ to sound eager, but he failed. He sat up and pulled off her boots and his while she fumbled between his arms and legs to pull the covers from under the cot.

“Two days.”

 _Two days._ Alistair groaned and Octavia’s chuckle brought him back down into bed.

“I’ll show you my quarters, first thing.” She promised as she snuggled, warm in his arms and Alistair let out another sigh, earning another laugh.

 

[art by froschkuss](http://froschkuss.tumblr.com/post/127548997614/stream-stuff-2-mabaris-requested-by-eternalshiva)


	7. Warden in Skyhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold - Elissa's ghost lingers and Alistair isn't the only one held down by the past.

_Skyhold._

Alistair blinked away the sun as he used his hand to give himself a little shade against the light. The cold weather curled around his body like a lover and he couldn’t wait to step through the gates to seek refuge in something a little warmer.

He glanced at Octavia, her words from a few nights ago still rung in his ears and felt his cheeks warm at the thought of what could potentially happen later that day. He didn’t want to rile himself up, the Inquisitor was a busy woman and he shouldn’t expect them to… caboodle.

He burrowed further into his makeshift scarf and eyed the fortress perched into the mountains. It reminded him of Weisshaupt, to a point. There was nothing quite like _that_ , he was sure, in the entirety of Thedas. Skyhold, on the other hand, had its own scent of surrealism. It was surrounded by the icy mountains and there seemed to be a steady flow of snow that had a life of its own. He shivered.

The Grey Warden’s Headquarters weren’t too different but it was definitely more majestic. Its location was in the Anderfels; in the middle of a tundra that resembled a cold desert that was inundated with old battles against the darkspawn. The ground itself was tainted and Weisshaupt’s history and existence was an enigma that many had tried to unravel. She kept her secrets well, unfortunately.

He remembered the first time he had arrived there.

Hard to forget considering Elissa’s body was trailing behind him with the Wardens escorting her to her Hero’s Tomb there. He swallowed, his impression of the Warden’s headquarters had seared itself in his memory – the image of twilight against the stone - it stood with such indulging pride he hadn’t been able to help the urge to admire the endless walls of white sun-washed stones that loomed above the land it claimed. It was hard to believe that the fortress itself was carved from the cliffs they adorned.

 _Living stone_ so his brothers of the Grey had told him in regards to the fabled tower. It was rumoured that the Tevinter Imperium were the creators of the Grey Warden Headquarters. It existed long before the First Blight had appeared on the surface of Thedas and after ninety years of war against the darkspawn the Wardens had snatched it from the tainted grip of their enemy.

It wasn't a farfetched notion that the fortress could potentially be a livingsentient, _Maker’s breath_ , there were such things as the Dwarven golems. Shale was… Well, they’d discovered the truth behind the craft and the anvil Caridin had used to forge a soul to stone and their companion had been… horrified? It was hard to tell with the Golem, she was hard to understand but she wasn’t quite the same when they had emerged from the Deep Roads, crown in hand for the new monarch of Orzammar.

The whole idea still shocked him, even ten years later.

Distant horns announced their arrival, Octavia – although already far ahead - took point and he let himself and Griffons be swallowed by the rest of the soldiers, inconspicuously. He had to admit, Skyhold was impressive ~~,~~ the closer he got. The long stone bridge was a perfect defense mechanism, forcing the enemy to basically line themselves up for easy pickings. The building itself was unreachable without the bridge. It was a positive and a negative defense point and it made him uneasy. Darkspawns liked mountains, especially the Frostbacks and they had a nasty habit of _bursting_ through the floors.

He pushed away the thought, the Inquisition had Grey Wardens with them, and at least Blackwall could warn them if there was anything amiss. He hoped, anyway. He had not been able to pin the man down for a conversation. It was a bit unusual considering two wardens in the same area usually meant _drinking_ and stories. Alistair always liked to hear the stories; it reminded him of his old comrades before Ostagar.

As they arrived into the main area of Skyhold Alistair watched as people gathered around Octavia, greeting her – welcoming her home. It was overwhelming, even for him. She looked at ease and uneasy all at the same time and he felt a little sorry for her when she looked over her shoulder to find him but he merely smirked and waved at her.

If her glare meant anything, he should probably find his quarters for the evening and not expect the warmth of her bed. Griffons found him, barking excitedly and Alistair sighed, grabbing his pack off the horse once he disembarked.

“What do you say we find the stables? Maybe sniff out the kitchens?” he grinned when Griffons barked, wagging his tail and Alistair motioned to the dog to lead the way, his hands grasping his horse’s reins. There was another excited bark and the mabari took off with the Warden in tow, sniffing the ground as it went.

Alistair smirked ~~,~~ as he looked up towards the large doors where his lover was being dragged away – he could practically see Octavia silently begging for help as she was ordered to follow a tall blond man whom had a _very serious_ expression on his face. He looked oddly familiar but Alistair could not quite pin point from what at this distance. He seemed to be at an important station, he was sure he’d meet him later if he knew anything about Octavia. Speaking of which, her eyes were still on him and he laughed, earning another glare from her. He couldn’t see it but he certainly _felt_ it.

“Ser Grey Warden?”

Alistair paused, confused to hear his title through the crowd as a young Inquisition soldier approached him.

“Yes?”

“The Inquisitor has asked that you be taken to her quarters, with all of your effects.”

Alistair blinked and the man before him raised a brow, waiting. “ _Oh_.” The Warden fidgeted, taken by surprise at the forwardness of the Inquisitor’s assumptions. “I assumed I would be… Well, that I— uhm.“

“She sent word ahead, a day or so ago in regards to your sleeping arrangements, amongst other things as well.” The agent offered as an explanation, keeping his face carefully neutral. Alistair cleared his throat, uneasy. It wouldn’t bode well on the inquisitor if he shacked up with her – he was a stranger to nearly everyone and people would talk... and talk got back to ears he didn’t want attention from.

“Ah, well that would explain it, then. As much as I appreciate her offer – I will have to decline. I would rather not draw attention and have my own room.” Alistair raised his chin, hands resting on the base of his spine as though he was standing on attention. “If that’s not too much of a hassle.” He added sheepishly.

The soldier raised a brow and nodded. “I will see to it that your rooms are ready within the hour .” The other man saluted him, feet clinking on the cobblestone loudly before he scampered out of sight, mixing into the dwindling crowd. Alistair narrowed his eyes, wondering if that was wise to refuse her offer, as tempting as it was.

He frowned, a bit troubled – he didn’t know where the stables were and the man had disappeared before he could ask. He eyed the yard critically, and noticed a bunch of soldiers herding some of their horses towards the left of the Hold. Alistair decided it was a good spot as any to start.

* * *

As the heavy doors of the War Room slammed shut behind them Octavia blew out the air in her cheeks and critically eyed her advisors and Morrigan, who had joined them after the Empress had offered her services. The Winter Palace had been a nightmare, to say the least. Octavia still felt a little uncertain about the arcane advisor; she did bring a lot of knowledge to the table and she had little to no information of such arts. Despite her obvious usefulness, there was something about Morrigan that rubbed her the wrong way.

The inquisitor let her gaze fall on Cullen, who huffed across the room and leaned against the table when he came to a stop, sword still clamped to his hip. Things seemed a bit tense, more so than normal.

“Corypheus has finally surfaced, Octavia.” Cullen tapped his fingers quickly across the map sprawled out on the table, his eyes meeting hers for a moment before she managed to get a word in. “There are rumours that the magister was seen in the desert, in the Western Approach.”

“Hello to you too, Cullen.” Octavia chuckled when he blinked at her; she was almost giddy at the mention of the location – this was perfect, she could knock out two dragons with one stone. Cullen flushed, embarrassed at his hurried actions. He cleared his throat and smiled, genuinely happy to see her again. “Welcome home, Inquisitor.”

She smiled, nodding to the rest of her advisors before focusing her attention on the map and various pins pointing to important locations. They’d been tracking a lot of rumours – but that’s all they were; rumors. She cleared her throat, leaning forward on the table as she motioned towards the desert.

“The warden we met in Crestwood,” she started, pressing her lips together for a moment, “his investigation is leading him towards this area – he has good information on Corypheus that I think we should listen to.” Octavia crossed her arms under her breasts, eyes still focused on Cullen’s hands as he put a token on the target she pointed out a few moments ago.

“Your report said very _little_ on the Warden, Inquisitor.” Leliana was holding on to the said report, her hands flipping through the few pages she had written quickly a week ago. She hadn’t said much, only reassuring her Spy Master that her information had been correct on the missing faction.

“Not much to say ~~,~~ but I’m sure you already know who it is. He’s on to something that could be in line with the Inquisition’s own goals.” Octavia grinned at the Bard, who smirked in return.

“Is it really wise to distract ourselves from the main mission with the Grey Wardens?” Cullen’s words were quiet but they held steel behind them. Octavia hummed, seeing his point – if this was just a dead end, it would be weeks of travel wasted.

“I understand your point, Cullen but this isn’t a distraction. Alistair and Hawke have said, quite confidently and with very good paperwork which I’m sure you’ll appreciate,” she winked at the Commander, who raised a brow in confusion, “that Corypheus is effecting the Grey Wardens with a _fake_ calling, which-“

“Alistair? As in Alistair _Theirin_?” Morrigan asked, almost amused at the coincidence.

“Yes, the one and the same. You know him?” Octavia glanced quickly at the arcane advisor, who raised a brow at her. The Inquisitor didn’t miss the smile.

“You could say, we travelled and fought under the banner of the Hero of Ferelden during the Blight.” Morrigan narrowed her eyes slightly at Leliana. “’Tis highly unusual to find all of us under the same roof.”

“Yes, quite.” The Spy Master winked at the Inquisitor, as though this was something she found highly amusing. Octavia had an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She looked at Cullen, whom raised a brow at her.

“And you?”

He shrugged. “I know him, yes. Not well, I’m afraid. He was part of the rescue that pulled me from the Ferelden Tower when it fell during the Blight.” Cullen shifted uncomfortably. Octavia scrutinized him and Cullen sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “He was also present during the Qunari incident in Kirkwall. But he wasn’t very _helpful_.”

Octavia heard Leliana laugh quietly behind her gloved hand, “I was also there in Kirkwall, secretly, on behalf of the Divine.” Cullen rolled his eyes.

“Why am I not surprised.” He murmured. “Regardless,” he leaned forward on the table, his gaze meeting Octavia’s to draw her attention back on topic. “We need to plan the next move – if you are going to investigate the connection between the Wardens and Corypheus we need find out more information from Alistair and how many of our troops we will need to dispatch with you.”

Octavia nodded, fidgeting a moment when she considered how long the meeting would be – she was tired, hungry, and she had not had the time to wash, let alone speak with Alistair – she still had to find Hawke too. She had a feeling she needed to warn him about Morrigan’s presence, now that she knew her link to his past.

* * *

The stables were easy to find, although following a group of people with horses _helped_ of course. He scrunched up his nose when the odd smell of animal manure hit his sense and tried not to grimace but it was hard to do, considering the stench.

He waved at the Horse Master, his memory tingling with recognition when the man turned to wave back – they both squinted at each other, pausing their greetings. “Master Dennett?” Alistair blinked, wondering how the old man had been recruited into the Inquisition.

The Horse Master grinned at the Warden. “Well if it isn’t Alistair – Maker’s Breath!”

“How did you –“ Alistair felt the hands of the other man tap him on the shoulder hard enough to shake him, he couldn’t help but smile at the familiar touch. “How did you end up here?”

“Sort of a long story; the Inquisitor is pretty determined and resourceful just between you and me.” Dennett winked at him. Alistair nodded, agreeing. Octavia had a certain way that drew you to her, but he had a feeling he was a bit more tangled into her fate than most.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but… didn’t you retire?”

“Once Bann Teagan took over Redcliff ~~,~~ I retired but ~~,~~ sometimes you have to answer to a higher calling.” The old man shrugged. “Do you want me to take your horse?” He reached out for the reins and Alistair happily left them in his hands. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Griffons barked at the Horse Master, which startled both of them.

“Griffons?” Dennett reached down to pet the mabari, quite tickled to see the animal bark in response. “Andraste’s knickers – still kicking around even after Elissa passed on?” The dog whined at Elissa’s name ~~,~~ and Dennett regretted mentioning her name almost immediately.

“Oh, I’m sorry boy – I forget Mabari are far more receptive than anyone really knows.” He scratched behind Griffon’s ear and the dog licked his hand, accepting the apology. Alistair swallowed, still smiling despite the squeeze in his chest. The _one_ place in Thedas Elissa hadn’t been to and so far it was full of people that knew her. He couldn’t escape her memory for the life of him.

“Yes, he’s still the loyal noble steed.” Alistair jested, forcing his laughter –the conversation suddenly awkward. Alistair cleared his throat after a few moments, thoughts wandering.

“Would you know where I could find Warden Blackwall?”

“Ay, he’s either in the woodshop or on the second floor.” Dennett pointed to the building next to them and Alistair nodded his thanks. He left his dog behind, who was happily getting scratched as he flopped to his back amongst the loose hay and manure – Alistair grimaced, he’d have to wash him _again_.

It did not take too long to track down the other warden and Alistair had every full intention of speaking with him since finding out just who Octavia’s warden companion was. He was eager - it was an honor to meet the man, to be honest. He wondered how he fared with the fake calling and how he was resisting it. Maybe he would have some insight on it… but the man had been in Ferelden and there was a possibility that he wouldn’t be effected by it like the wardens of Orlais.

He slowed near ~~ed~~ the steps to the upper floor of the stable as two sharp voices caught his attention. He hadn’t meant to _eavesdrop_ but the topic that was getting shouted was hard to step away from.

“How can you possibly dislike the Grey Wardens, Vivienne?” There was a snort after the pleasant question, Alistair leaned forward to catch the rest but Blackwall had been cut off by a woman.

“Really? How many people do they conscript in the name of vigilance against the Blight? Hundreds? Thousands?”

Alistair blinked in shock at the actual questions. Were these real questions? He opened his mouth to answer the ignorant statement but then snapped it shut – they didn’t know he was there.

They didn’t conscript anyone unless there was an _active_ blight… or to save someone from a fate far worse than the Wardens. He climbed the steps quietly, his head peeking above the floor. He could see them in the back where the hay was stacked high. Blackwall was glaring at a tall woman who was dressed sharply, a little too elegant for this part of the hold, Alistair was almost sure of it.

“Not only that ~~,~~ but for a threat that recent history tells us can be successfully ended by just two.” The woman continued to speak, her ignorance almost palatable.

It wasn’t just _two,_ Alistair argued quietly _._ It was an army of Nations brought together by one person stubborn enough to stare an archdemon in the eye and take it to the grave. It took _one_ warden to end the blight but it took half of Thedas to get there.

All the trials and error from thousands of Wardens over a thousand years, to learn how to defeat the enemy, the extinction of the Griffons, the darkness they had to pull from the depth of their own souls to win the impossible. The things they did to figure out the rituals, to test their limits, to hold the darkspawn at bay. Alistair frowned, angry.

Vivienne rolled her eyes at Blackwall, her hands nestled carefully on her hips as she clicked her tongue. “Yes, they certainly are _heroes_ , and not at all a _wasteful relic of a bygone age_. Whatever could I find objectionable?”

Alistair took a breath, hands at his side. He was used to the criticism - he was used to hearing people comment how useless the Wardens were now that the Blight had come and gone. And now, with the Calling hounding all of them, they were near the brink of extinction. History was ready to push them back into the shadows, to be forgotten - to be erased.

_A bygone age?_

Were their sacrifices not worthy? The Blight in their blood, the madness of it - the deaths, the calling, the joining.

 _Wasteful_? He heard Blackwall spit. “Say that again when a Blight’s at your door.”

“We’ll be long dead, my darling - and Wardens are nothing-”

“Warden Alistair.” Blackwall interrupted her, Vivienne turned, narrowing her eyes at the intrusion. “We were just speaking of your efforts in the last Blight.”

“I see.” Alistair crossed his arms, feeling angrier than he should. It wasn’t her fault she wasn’t privy to the secrets of the Order. “Miss Vivienne?” He nodded to her in greeting and she did the same, smiling at him – her gaze calculating. Alistair swallowed down the words that burned his throat.

Should he bother refuting her assumptions? She raised a brow, expectantly.

 _Yes_.

“I feel as though you need to know a few things. While the Order may be shrouded in mystery-“

“Mysteries are only pretty lies, half-truths twisted to befit a need and then forgotten with time, only to have it remain untouched while the truth is eclipsed– The lie is proud, defiant – _legendary_ – but in the end it’s still _false_.”

Alistair smiled, his face felt tight. She wasn’t _wrong_.

“There _is_ truth in your words.” He would give her that. “But there are still seven archdemons sleeping below the roads of Orzammar, there are still darkspawn digging to find them, they are still spilling above the ground and infecting the world with the Blight.” Vivienne had to nod, agreeing to his words.

“There is no other known way to end a blight than with the blade of a Warden through the skull of those dragons.” He made the motion with his hands subconsciously, Elissa’s form but a shadow in his memory when their souls clashed and the entire area turned white with the destruction of the Archdemon.

“If that’s all that is needed, why-“ she started but Alistair felt a little bit… well, he couldn’t quite pinpoint the emotion. Angry? Annoyed? Indifferent?

“There’s more to it, of course.” He eyed Blackwall. “It’s not just a _Special Warden Sword_.” He almost smirked when Blackwall cleared his throat at the mention of the ruse used on the Inquisitor. “Rituals, blighted blood and the sorts. Things I can’t share. Things only the Wardens would sacrifice to keep your likes safe from the monsters below our feet.” Alistair tapped his foot against the wooden floor to emphasise his meaning. He felt his temper ween as Vivienne shifted, a bit uncomfortable. “Only one warden is needed to kill the Archdemon, that is true – but it takes entire nations to make it happen.”

Vivienne stood her ground, but receded – sighing. “Alright, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, warden. Maybe you’re not just _relics_.”

“Nor bygones.” He reiterated. Vivienne chuckled, taking her leave from both of the men.

“Well, that went…” Blackwall started to speak but Alistair just sighed.

“Terrible.” Alistair was a bit annoyed with himself for allowing his feelings to rear their ugly head. Blackwall let out a bark of laughter.

“She has a lot to think about, after _that_ chat. Vivienne means well, in the end – I think.” He scratched his beard for a moment, as though he didn’t believe his own words but shrugged and headed back down the stairs, taking out a pair of leather gloves from one pocket and pulled them on over his hands.

“The road taken to _get there_ is what matters, in my opinion.” Alistair said thoughtfully. In the earliest days of the Blight ~~,~~ Elissa had tried to keep everything _legal_ and calm, despite the urgency and ridiculousness of politics. They rarely cut corners but when they did, it was out of desperation – the fate of the world was relying on just their small group of rift raft.

“True enough, the means to an end _should_ be honourable.” Blackwall cleared his throat, the words hung between them with a strange awkwardness and Alistair wasn’t sure where it was coming from. He followed Blackwall down to the workshop and he was struck by something a little unusual. Maybe it was just the calling scrambling his mind… usually there was this strange _sensation_ around other wardens – the blight in their veins made it so they could almost feel each other, like they could with the darkspawn. Not as intense, but still a strange buzzing around each other. Yet he couldn’t with him. Alistair rubbed the back of his neck, almost sure he was mistaken.

“Say, how are you able to ignore the calling?”

“The Calling?” Blackwall seemed genuinely confused. Alistair blinked, almost confused himself at the reaction – maybe the Ferelden Order wasn’t effected but he found that hard to believe. The song was still strong inside of his own head, how could the other man not notice it? Maybe it was because of the breach so close to them. It was deafening at times.

“I just ignore it – I keep telling myself it’s not real.”

“Tough it out, eh?” Alistair almost laughed, that seemed… _ridiculous_. How could he just muscle through the feeling of being drawn to the roads below? Of being drawn to succumbing to death?

“Something like that.” Blackwall eyed him for a moment before focusing his attention on something he was building. Alistair moved closer, admiring the work.

“Is that a Griffon?”

“Ay, I need to keep my hands busy – too much thinking.” The elder Warden sighed the words. Alistair nodded.

“I understand that, all too well.” The two warden’s looked at each other before chuckling, Alistair leaned against the table and for a little while watched the other chip and carve the wood. Absently he wondered what kept Octavia and found another topic to pass the time.

“Do you remember Duncan?” Blackwall looked up from his work at the question, raising a brow while Alistair continued to speak. “He spoke of you quite fondly.”

“Ah yes, good man. How is the old chap? I haven’t heard about him in a long time.”

Alistair frowned. “He’s dead.”

* * *

It felt like hours before she managed to get out of the meeting, Cullen’s endless questions were necessary when she reported her mission details and it required a lot of focus and concentration that she didn’t have just then – which he noticed. Her mind was on other things – particularly a certain _someone_. And a … _promised_ activity later if she managed to shake Cullen off her trail. She adored the man but work wasn’t _everything._

Octavia grinned, butterflies fluttering in her belly at the anticipation. It had been a long time since she felt anything like this over someone. Alistair’s role in history and the part that he played - it was the icing on the cake, amongst everything else. She’d read _a lot_ on the Blight, his mentions were minimal compared to the Hero and it wasn’t as though she was particularly looking for him in the records – her interest laid with Elissa mostly. Regardless, the rumours about him were always very _mysterious_.

A bastard prince who refused the throne despite the Hero’s appointment, he was an ex-templar – well no, she corrected herself - he was a recruit who did not take his vows. He was a dedicated Grey Warden, loyal to a fault and the most interesting thing of all, the lover to the Hero of Ferelden. The rumours had all been true.

So far ~~,~~ he was nothing like she’d ever imagined – he was... well, he was _fascinating_ if she had to pick one word for him. He was a magnificent warrior that rivaled her own team. He was reliable, gentle, intelligent – his humour was right up her alley and _maker’s breath_ , his kisses were divine. That was all she’d been thinking of lately ~~,~~ and after that night in the tent a few nights back ~~,~~ she wondered what he would feel like against her. They’d spent very little time together since and she was a bit eager to explore even _more_ of him.

As she approached the door to her quarters with her advisor’s worries swirling in her thoughts she pushed away any intention of… _studying_ history with her warden. It was true; she had to find out more information as per her advisor’s request and _Maker’s Breath_ , she couldn’t blame the Commander’s itchiness for more tactical information on the Western Approach. She felt the same and needless to say it was important to find anything related to the Grey Warden troops located there – if they were compromised, they would need to plan for a rescue or worst case scenario, an attack.

The last bit of thought did not bode well with her; she had a bad feeling about the whole thing in general. If Corypheus could control the Wardens it was going to be difficult to go against them. In battle ~~,~~ they were a force to be reckoned with and if the Inquisition had to take them down... she didn’t really want to think about it. Alistair would be-

“Inquisitor?”

“Yes?” The sound of her title interrupted her thought, forcing her to put her worries aside. She focused her attention on the messenger.

“The Warden did not accept your invitation to have his things moved to your quarters, ma’am.” The woman saluted her, feet clicking to the ground. “He’s been set up in the guest area at his own request.”

Octavia barely hid her surprise.

“Oh.” Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment; that was what she got for assuming things. They hadn’t talked about that… “Where is the Warden now?”

“It was reported that he had met with Warden Blackwall earlier and is now wandering the grounds.” The soldier pressed her lips together.

“Is there something else?” Octavia narrowed her eyes slightly, waiting – she had a pile of things to do, _including_ a warden.

“Yes, Grand Enchanter Fiona has asked for you, upstairs in the library.”

Octavia dismissed the soldier with a nod. She turned towards the Hall again, her plans interrupted once more. What could the mage possibly want now?

* * *

 _He had found the kitchens_.

All was well, as far as Alistair was concerned. He grinned, leaving behind a confused cook with a missing wedge of cheese. It had been a while since he’d caused a little chaos in that particular part of any castle or fortress, and for that matter – he had almost blown his own cover when the cook questioned his credentials. Of course the cook had never heard of the Inquisitor’s Personal Taste Tester, he’d made it up! He bit into the wedge, relishing the sour taste of the cheddar as he made his way through the grounds once more, this time finding the outdoor gardens.

He took in a breath – and coughed, gasping for breath. The stench of elfroot was almost overwhelming and he wondered why there was so much of it planted in pots around the place. _Besides that,_ the serene calmness of the area seemed a bit surreal. It was unusually warm inside the walls of this place, he’d swear it was charmed or something of the sorts.

The hum in the back of his mind seemed to subside a bit, the calling was almost a pleasant song. He rubbed his forehead while eyeing the surroundings. There was something that caught his eye far off into the garden, near the gazebo – the person in question was seated comfortably with their nose in a book. He narrowed his eyes, recognizing the form – how could he ever forget that particular shape. _Morrigan_.

“Well, look what the _cat_ dragged in.” he scoffed as he approached her, crossing his arms across his chest when she looked up. He heard the book snap shut before she placed it next to herself on the bench.

“Alistair.” She greeted, her eyes narrowing slightly at the word as though she had a mouthful of something unpleasant. He reciprocated the gesture.

“Morrigan.”

The witch leaned back against the bench and looked at him, the corner of her lip curled up. He didn’t like _that_ , it always meant she was up to something... or was about to _do_ something.

“What, pray tell, brings you here, Warden?”

He shrugged non-committedly, she rolled her eyes. “A few things, this and that – a hole in the sky mostly. May I sit?”

“Certainly.” She nodded, taking the book onto her lap as she watched him from the corner of her eye while he plopped down next to her quite ungraciously.

“So… after the great battle, where did you… _run_ off to?”

Morrigan raised a brow, half expecting the query. Alistair was always drawn to the past and seemed unable to move forward at times. “No questions on what I’m actually doing here?”

“I doubt you’ll answer them honestly, just as I can’t divulge the true reason for mine.”

“How unusually wise, for you.”

“Undoubtedly.” Alistair chuckled – they hadn’t changed. He still felt a little uneasy around her but not because she was an apostate. The Wardens were stuffed with them in their ranks and he was now very familiar with magic and the likes of it.

No, he was uncomfortable for different reasons. _Personal_ reasons.

“As I told Elissa, once the Archdemon was dead, I would disappear. And I did. T’was a difficult journey and wrought with adversaries. Fate, as some would say, has brought me back into Ferelden, with another… _Hero_.” She pressed her lips together, the words sticky in her mouth.

It was barely an explanation; she had completely avoided answering. He could play that game too. “It would seem both of us are tangled, again.”

“Tangled? An interesting choice of words, Alistair. Are you tangling with the Inquisitor?” She smirked at him. _Smirked_! Alistair felt his cheeks warm.

“Of course you would say that.” He mumbled under his breath. “Is nothing hidden from you?”

“Are you not a creature of habit?” She said point blank and Alistair was almost speechless. _Almost_.

“Says the woman that can turn into spiders.” He huffed, annoyed. Morrigan only smiled, pleased with herself. “I didn’t realise I was that obvious. You don’t see me for ten years and you already know I’m-“

“The Inquisitor didn’t do a very good job at hiding her… _eagerness_ to find you after the council met. T’was not difficult to put two and two together.” She quickly added in before he could finish.

“Ah, betrayed by the other lover.” He had trouble holding in the grin when Morrigan crossed her arms, seeming indignant. It didn’t last long though; his reign of a tiny wining streak came to an abrupt end.

“She reminded me of Elissa and you, when you were together. The way she was acting was very nostalgic.” Morrigan’s words surprised him.

“You? A sentimental? Well colour me surprised.” Alistair teased, unsure how to take the sudden turn of subject. He felt the twinge of emotion threaten to engulf him so he deflected. That’s what he was good at.

“Deflecting with terrible jokes are we? How positively predictable” She retorted, her lips pulled back in disgust. “She was the only friend I had, Alistair. I tried to save her from the Warden’s fatal fate but she would not hear of it.”

He let out a bark of laughter, not believing her. “What?”

“Tis true. I offered her an option that night in Redcliffe. It required too much, I wager, considering the outcome.” She let the words trail off and despite the warning signs, Alistair couldn’t help but push forward.

“What _option_? What are you going on about Morrigan?” His heart went still when she blinked at him, realising that Elissa hadn’t even spoken to him about it.

“A ritual – a loop hole of sorts. I discovered it through my mother’s journal. Elissa could have lived but she refused to pay the price – or should I say, refused to let you _choose_ to pay the price.” Morrigan shook her head slightly, sympathy almost cruel in her eyes.

“What was required of… of me for this ritual?” The question made Morrigan look uncomfortable, which didn’t bode well for him. It must have been grave if Elissa did not want to even speak of it.

“I… I had asked for your assistance in a blood magic ritual.“

“Blood magic? Elissa would never-“

“Exactly.” She narrowed her eyes, Alistair swallowed the lump in his throat and watched the witch carefully, hanging on to every word of a secret lost to death. “You know her opinions on the matter, and above all else, I would have needed your child for it to be a success, hence the blood magic.”

“My child?” It dawned on him that, by night, she meant… sex. “You needed my child?”

“To be more specific, I needed your seed. You were a new warden that had taken the oath within a year.” She narrowed her eyes, the memory still painfully unpleasant. “The newly formed child from such a union would have absorbed the soul of the archdemon and survived.” She heard Alistair let out a breath in disbelief.

She was shocked, in all honesty. All these years she through it was him that refused the ritual. It never occurred to her that Elissa hadn’t even spoken about it to him. “Had we performed the ritual, the Warden’s soul would not have absorbed the archdemon.” She snapped out the words, it was obvious Morrigan had thought of this often. The what ifs were probably haunting her as well. “It guaranteed her survival or yours, no matter who slayed the beast.”

“All you needed was…” The words were sticking to the back of his throat. “How… How could she not _talk_ to me about it? How could she just…” Anger flared through him, hot and painful. He fisted his hands on his knees and gritted his teeth. He thought back on that night – how she looked troubled.

> _“What’s the matter, love? Worried about the battle?” He kissed her temple playfully, sweat still clinging to both of them._
> 
> _“No, uh – well yes. I mean…” she bit her lip, twirling a piece of hair between her fingers while they laid in bed together for one last night of intimacy. “I hope… things work out.”_
> 
> _“With Riordan’s sacrifice?”_
> 
> _“Yes, I know he means to take the final blow but I’m worried I made a bad decision.”_
> 
> _“You? Make a terrible decision?” He feigned shock, making her laugh. “Maker’s breath, Elissa – we’ve done everything we can, everything possible to ensure we win this.”_

He could still see the uncertainty, the guilt in her eyes. Now he knew from _what_ and it infuriated him – the lies he had accepted as truth all those years ago were now exposed from the one person who he had _no choice_ but to believe.

“Why did she not tell me? It was my choice! Why did you keep this from me?” His voice cracked, he was drowning again.

“Alistair,” Morrigan did not reach out to comfort him or wait for his grief to subside – she wasn’t one to wallow in self-pity. “She could have lived, but she chose to refuse the ritual.” The words _hurt_. She knew that, and still, he had to hear them despite his growing anxiety. “You knew her opinion on blood magic and the likes. ‘Tis not your fault or mine, Grey Warden, but her own.”

And with that, Alistair stood up and left the Witch to her thoughts – she watched him leave before her attentions were drawn back to the book on her lap.

* * *

Octavia found Fiona amongst the endless rows of books in their library – the elf had buried herself there since Queen Anora had exiled the rebels into the Inquisition ranks.

“Greetings Inquisitor, thank you for coming.”

Octavia smiled, a bit troubled at the way the woman bowed. “There’s no need for that, Grand Enchanter. What can I do for you?”

“I lost that privilege when the Circle of Magi fell, Inquisitor. Some still call me that but I correct them when I can.”

“You still lead the Rebellion,” Octavia remarked but Fiona only shook her head.

“I was also a Grey Warden once, but now I am neither of these things you mention – I am just grateful you accepted us into your ranks as equals.”

Octavia raised a brow, curious. “You were a Grey Warden?”

Fiona fidgeted nervously– which made Octavia only more curious. “Yes, I was. I was stripped of what makes us Wardens in a strange incident.” She looked down at her hands, as though remembering something. “Although they tried to initiate me again, everything failed.” She chuckled. “I was kicked out of the Wardens as a result, returned to the Circle. My conscription ultimately voided as a result of this accident.”

“You couldn’t stay with them?”

“I was a reborn apostate. If I was not able to rejoin the ranks of the Wardens, I would be sought by the Templars. They had no protection to offer me. The First Warden was, and remains, very careful politically - I had no choice in the matter.”

“It sounds very complex.” Octavia hummed, a bit intrigued. What could have ridden her of her joining? What _was_ the joining?

“It was.” Fiona shifted slightly, her gaze meeting Octavia’s. “I do not wish to bore you with my past, Inquisitor. I wanted to personally thank you for your aid and I have a few concerns from the mages that are with us.”

“You’re welcome, and what concerns are those?”

“A few days ago, there was a fairly large following of Templars that joined your ranks and-“

Octavia raised her hand, silencing the mage abruptly. “I can see where this is going, Fiona. Templars that join the Inquisition know very well that we work with mages as equals. Commander Cullen, a former Templar I might add, weeds out those that do not comply to our rigid rules on this. I will not tolerate any fear mongering or any instigation from the mages either.” She glared at the elf, who blinked at her in surprise.

“I was not going to – I mean, I wasn’t referring to…” Fiona frowned and Octavia pressed her lips together, realising she had jumped to conclusions.

“I’m sorry, I assumed-“ Octavia dropped her face into the palms of her hands, rubbing in mortification. “What were you going to say before I stuck my foot in my mouth?”

Fiona laughed, it was a rich tone, familiar to her. “I was going to mention that within the Templars that arrived, some were sick with red lyrium and others severely injured but not by magic. The delirious ones were quite adamant that other Templars did this to them. It seems that the Order has fallen far beyond anyone’s reach.”

Octavia nodded, it had been in one of her reports from Lelianna. “I’m aware, there are some good people at least that are able bodied that survived the attack. What were your questions?”

“The lyrium sickness – I’ve never quite seen anything like it. Our healers are a bit unsure how to proceed.”

Octavia pressed her lips together, frowning. “You should speak with Varric on the matter, he’s a bit knowledgeable on it, also, there’s a woman named Hawke who has also been looking into it with Warden Alistair.”

Fiona’s eyes widen at the name, taken by surprise. Octavia blinked at the woman who suddenly seemed… nervous?

“Alistair? Would that be…”

“He was part of the Warden duo that beat the blight, yes. Would you like me to introduce you? Being comrades and all that.” The Inquisitor winked at her, and seemed almost pleased with herself. It was not everyday she was able to introduce him like that. Fiona fidgeted oddly again, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“I know him, well – of him. His father and I were acquainted in the past, during the time I lost my Warden status.” Fiona smiled warmly. “Maric had such high hopes for him, I was surprised to hear he had become a warden.”

“Oh, I’m sure Alistair would love to meet you,” Octavia wondered for a brief moment if she was reading the woman incorrectly, she seemed eager to meet him, but reluctant.

“I don’t… I’m not sure. It’s just the ramblings of an old woman, no need to fret over me.” She chuckled, dismissing her own feelings on the matter.

“I’ll let him know, at least he can decide for himself?” This was a bit strange, Octavia scrutinized the mage again, wondering why she seemed a little familiar.

“Perhaps later, inquisitor.” Fiona bowed slightly again, before retreating. Octavia had the sensation she was missing something important… Oh well, she had to finish a few things before seeking out Alistair.

* * *

Alistair had wandered for a while, his thoughts swirling. Elissa had _lied_ to him, for what purpose? She had ended their life together and he had no say in it. He felt… angry, disappointed. There was a hollow in his chest that ached and he couldn’t shake it. All he could think of was her corpse in the debris of the Archdemon’s remains, all the years he spent at the foot of her grave wishing he had died with her.

All the memories felt sullied, fake.

_“She could have lived, Alistair - but she chose to refuse the ritual. You know her opinion on blood magic and the likes. ‘Tis not your fault or mine, Grey Warden, but her own.”_

Morrigan’s words festered in his mind, they dug in – they hurt and stirred embers to life he thought he had dealt with. It _burned_. Alistair found himself in front of Octavia`s chamber doors, the guard nodding at him as he entered. He heard his feet shuffle against the wooden steps to the long trek to her chambers. Was this even the way?

He didn’t care. He needed to be away from the prying eyes of others and his rooms were too far away. He needed… he needed Octavia’s warmth and her forgiveness. He needed Elissa’s smile and the sound of her laughter.

He wanted to go back – he was sorry he even spoke to Morrigan, she should have kept the truth to herself; why did she feel the need to tell him?

He pushed the last door open, more steps. He began to strip his armour – the Warden’s ensign heavy on his chest. Anger still bit the back of his throat and he wanted to… he wanted to… He sat at the foot of Octavia’s bed, listless. Waiting.

It wasn’t long before he heard the door below open and Octavia’s quick steps, she was chuckling at the mess he had left behind.

“Well, what’s all this? I thought you were staying away from here. You seem to have lost some gear.” She arrived at the top of the stairs, already pulling off her trousers and boots. Alistair still hadn’t said anything. “Being coy?”

No answer.

She looked up, focusing her attention on his back. He was staring out the windows to the left of the room. There was something odd about him.

“Alistair?” She approached him, worried.

Alistair was lost in his memories.

Elissa’s last words to him on the battlefield in Denerim never made sense before but now… now they scraped the scar open and he was _bleeding._

_Forgive me, Alistair, forgive me._

He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes and Morrigan’s words soured the memory of his love, soured the kiss he cherished and memorised right down to how her scar felt against his lips. He could still taste her tears and the blood mixed with her farewell.

She could have lived and… and…

Octavia put her hand on his shoulder and Alistair turned, an angry word ready to be set loose from his tongue, wondering who would disturb him but the inquisitor’s worried eyes made him pause. He swallowed the knot in his throat and tried to speak, apologize - _anything_. He knew what he was about to do was wrong to Octavia but he couldn’t help it. Grief overtook him again, gripped his heart and squeezed it so hard he could hardly breathe, couldn’t speak properly and explain what was wrong.

“Alistair? Are you alright?” The words broke him, tears weld up in his eyes and Octavia’s face blurred. He wasn’t alright, he was far from it. He shook his head.

“She could have lived. Maker, what a _selfish_ woman.” He spat the words and Octavia blinked, realising he spoke of Elissa. She pulled him into her arms and held him close, kissing his temple. He hadn’t cried since her funeral - he hadn’t felt so much anger since Duncan died. He gripped Octavia close to him, fingers digging into her and she whispered words he chose to ignore. He squeezed his eyes shut; he wanted to forget today ever happened.

Octavia stood still for a while, waiting for his hold to release – she was curious to know what happened and why he was in such bad shape but asking him now would be the wrong move. She carefully convinced him to lay down, pulling the blankets over him while she busied herself with starting a fire. The room had begun to cool when the sun had set and she didn’t think they’d be doing anything tonight besides mending the past.

Octavia sighed, her task finished. She made her way back to bed and listened to Alistair weep, her fingers soothing his hair, touching his skin in comfort. Elissa’s ghost was still sitting between them and Octavia wasn’t sure he’d ever let her go.

Art by Feylen (Commissioned)


End file.
